IMUUiUttMMMiHBHBMMNI 


Southern  Hefogee 


Charles  E*  Whelsm 


'  ; 


L1BRAKY 

UNIVERSITY  IF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


>* 

'  «^ch  2,  e« 


' 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAN  DIEGO 
x?LA  JOLLA.  CALIFORNIA 


Alone  with  God  and  Poverty. 


BASCOM  CLARKE 


The  Story  of  a  Southern  Refugee 

By 

CHARLES  E.  WHELAN 


Frontispiece  by 
GEORGE  W.  FRENCH 


THE   AMERICAN  THRESHERMAN 

Publishers 
MADISON,  WISCONSIN 


Copyright,  1913 

The  American  Thresherman 

Madison,  Wisconsin 


CANTWELL  PRINTING  CO.,  MADISON,  WIS. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HAEEIET  NOBLE,  WHOSE 
MOTHERLY  AFFECTION  WAS  BESTOWED  UPON 
THE  REFUGEE,  AND  WHOSE  SWEET  AND  GEN- 
TLE NATURE  SEEMED  LIKE  A  BENEDICTION. 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 


Some  time  ago,  Mr.  Clarke  started  to  write  the  story 
of  his  life  under  the  title,  "The  Eefugee  Boy."  He  had 
dictated  quite  a  bit  of  material  when,  by  reason  of  its 
extreme  personal  character,  he  stopped.  I  rescued  that 
manuscript  and,  using  the  information  therein  obtained, 
added  to  it  other  facts  gathered  from  him  by  conversa- 
tion. I  visited  the  scene  of  his  Indiana  life  and  conversed 
with  the  people  to  gain  new  viewpoints  of  the  influences 
surrounding  his  growth  from  boyhood  to  manhood.  No 
fictitious  name  has  been  used  where  it  was  possible  to  ob- 
tain the  real  one.  By  reason  of  close  intimacy  with  him  I 
knew  his  personal  characteristics,  and  this  volume  is 
largely  a  search  for  the  environment  and  influences  whicn 
have  made  him  what  he  is.  If  I  have  accomplished  this  in 
any  degree,  and  at  the  same  time  have  made  the  story  to 
any  extent  as  entertaining  to  others  as  it  was  to  me,  I 
shall  be  satisfied.  I  have  used  his  own  language  wherever 
possible,  because  of  his  original  and  trenchant  way  of 
putting  things  as  well  as  to  get  his  survey  of  conditions 
and  results.  Thus,  it  is  his  story  run  through  my  mill 
and  the  toll  of  pleasure  I  have  received  has  abundantly 
repaid  the  time  and  effort  spent. 

CHARLES  E.  WHELAN. 

Madison,  Wis.,  August  10,  1913. 


AN   APOLOGY 


For  years  I  contemplated  publishing  the  incidents  of 
my  early  life  in  book  form,  especially  during  that  period 
when  the  nation's  fate  was  at  stake  and  I,  an  orphan, 
alone  with  God  and  poverty,  found  myself  in  the  land 
of  my  country's  enemies,  who  proved  such  good  friends 
that  through  their  acts,  a  "reconstructed  rebel,"  whose 
soul  had  been  filled  with  treason  and  hatred,  came  to 
cast  his  first  vote  for  the  Hero  of  Appomattox. 

While  away  from  business  cares  a  few  years  ago  in 
California,  I  prepared  from  memory — a  family  trait  of 
many  generations — manuscript  containing  many  incidents 
of  my  life,  which  I  had  intended  publishing  under  a  nom 
de  plume,  and  which,  stripped  of  Mr.  Whelan's  sugar- 
coating,  are  absolutely  true.  After  completing  the  manu- 
script, two  facts  presented  themselves:  The  story,  to  be 
of  interest,  could  not  be  disguised,  the  identity  of  the  sub- 
ject must  needs  be  disclosed.  This  would  have  made  it 
of  so  personal  a  nature  that  I  abandoned  the  idea.  Sub- 
mitting the  manuscript  for  Mr.  Whelan's  consideration, 
he  took  possession  of  it  and  insisted  on  clothing  it  in 
the  uniform  of  a  story,  instead  of  a  narrative  of  events. 

I  promised  the  Two  Little  Sisters — all  that  are  left  of 
that  once  large  and  happy  family — that  through  them, 
the  first  five  hundred  copies  should  be  presented  to  the 
Daughters  of  the  Confederacy.  The  second  five  hundred 
copies  are  reserved  for  the  survivors  of  the  Third  Michi- 
gan Cavalry,  whose  gallant  boys  escorted  me  to  the  Union 


lines  at  DeValls  Bluff,  Arkansas,  in  '64,  and  the  survivors 
of  the  Second  Indiana  Battery  who  accompanied  me  as 
far  as  Cairo  on  Farragut's  gunboats,  and  thence  to  Indi- 
ana, both  of  whom  shared  with  me  their  haversacks  in 
the  long  ago. 

I  have  experienced  some  of  the  trying  scenes  of  war  on 
both  sides,  and  I  know  something  of  the  price  paid  in 
precious  lives  and  priceless  treasure  to  wipe  out  the  curse 
of  slavery.  I  have  watched  with  much  interest  the  chang- 
ing of  sentiment,  from  the  days  of  Albion  W.  Turgee's 
Fool's  Errand,  to  the  days  when  that  matchless  orator 
and  southern  gentleman,  Henry  Watterson,  in  his  dedi- 
cation address,  likened  Abraham  Lincoln  unto  the  Son  of 
Man.  I  have  witnessed  the  healing  of  the  wounds  of  the 
past,  so  beautifully  exemplified  on  the  fiftieth  anniversary 
of  Gettysburg,  and  have  in  other  lands  beyond  the  seas  sa- 
luted the  flag  as  it  waved  triumphantly  to  the  breeze, 
the  representative  of  a  reunited  nation,  without  the  loss 
of  a  single  star  from  its  diadem. 

BASCOM  B.  CLARKE. 
Madison,  Wis.,  November  1,  1913. 


NOTE.— The  Colonel  Caldwell  appearing:  in  the  story  was  in  reality  Colonel 
Kellogg,  the  refugee  boy  having  wrongfully  caught  the  name. 


BASCOM  CLARKE 


BASCOM  CLARKE 


CHAPTER  I. 

Thompson's  Landing  was  filled  with  interest,  for  the 
Clarkes  were  going  "west."  It  was  in  old  Virginia,  "be- 
fo'  the  war."  For  generations  the  Clarke  family  had 
held  a  prominent  place  in  all  the  affairs  of  the  town  and 
state,  and  seemed  as  much  a  part  of  the  country  as  the 
soil  itself.  Thus  the  determination  to  move  was  an  event, 
not  only  to  those  who  were  to  break  the  old  home  ties, 
but  to  the  community  of  which  these  people  had  been  a 
part. 

Colonel  Clarke  bore  a  title  granted  him  by  the  Governor 
of  Virginia  for  services  in  connection  with  the  Lexington 
Military  Academy,  in  which  he  had  been  an  instructor 
after  receiving  his  education  there.  He  had  that  dignified 
military  bearing  which  not  only  brought  him  the  courtesy 
of  the  ordinary  citizen,  but  marked  him  in  the  eyes  of  the 
stranger  as  a  man  of  distinguished  characteristics.  But 
even  the  Colonel  was  compelled  to  stand  in  the  shadow 
of  Grandfather  Clarke,  a  veteran  of  the  War  of  1812. 

In  that  war  ' '  Grandfather, "  as  he  was  known  to  every- 
body in  the  village,  had  marched,  bivouacked  and  fought 
side  by  side  with  his  brother  Americans  of  the  North, 
never  dreaming  of  the  time  when  there  should  be  an  ar- 
raignment of  the  one  against  the  other  in  bloody  frati- 
cidal  strife.  To  this  influence  probably  may  be  traced 
the  strong  union  sentiment  which  obtained  in  the  Clarke 
family  even  when  the  fortunes  of  a  part  of  them  were 
cast  with  their  states  on  the  Confederate  side.  Having 
fought  side  by  side  with  them  the  old  man  did  not  share 
the  common  Southern  boast  that  the  "Yankees"  pos- 

i  [1] 


sessed  a  different  fighting  quality  than  the  "Johnnies" 
Had  there  been  as  many  veterans  of  the  War  of  1812,  at 
that  time,  as  there  were  of  the  Civil  War  later,  their  esti- 
mate of  each  other  would  not  have  been  left  to  theory  or 
tradition,  but  would  have  been  positive  beyond  doubt. 
The  influence  of  these  men  might  have  stemmed  the  tidal 
wave  set  in  motion  by  designing  politicians  which  resulted 
in  the  War  of  the  Rebellion.  People  can  see  you  better  if 
you  are  fanning  a  flame  and  adding  fuel  to  it  than  if  you  " 
are  stamping  it  out  to  prevent  a  conflagration.  Grand- 
father Clarke  never  consented  to  an  array  of  one  section 
of  the  country  against  another  under  different  flags. 

The  Clarke  family  held  "niggers" — not  in  the  number 
demanded  by  a  big  plantation,  but  sufficient  to  the  needs 
of  town  dwelling  people.  There  was  no  thought  of  any 
great  moral  wrong  in  this  ownership,  either  on  the  part 
of  the  owner  or  the  slave.  It  was  a  part  of  a  system  which 
had  so  grown  into  the  lives  of  the  people,  that  negro  ser- 
vants were  as  much  a  part  of  the  home  atmosphere  as  the 
family  itself.  In  most  instances,  especially  with  relation 
to  personal  servants,  the  care  and  affection  bestowed  upon 
them  was  equal  to  that  given  the  members  of  the  imme- 
diate family.  These  servants  had  no  idea  they  were  being 
wrongfully  held,  nor  did  they  fret  under  the  subjection 
to  their  white  masters.  The  little  colored  boys  played 
with  the  white  boys  at  their  games,  and  naturally  yielded 
to  their  young  masters.  Obedience  was  given  as  a  matter 
of  course. 

Cruelty  to  a  negro  slave  was  no  more  frequent  than 
cruelty  to  apprentices  under  the  old  bond  system  of  the 
North.  The  exaggerated  pictures  of  extreme  conditions 
which  inflamed  the  Northerners  could  havef  been  dupli- 
cated by  the  pen  of  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  in  almost  any 
part  of  New  England,  where  a  boy  was  bound  out  to  a 
master  until  he  was  twenty-one  years  of  age.  And  that 
system  of  bondage  then  was  just  as  prevalent  in  the  North 
as  the  holding  of  slaves  was  in  the  South,  although  the 
number  of  bound  apprentices  and  servants  was  not  as 
large  as  the  number  of  slaves  in  the  South.  It  has  been 

[2] 


true  in  all  of  the  past  and  probably  will  be  true  in  all 
the  years  to  come  that  all  the  people  can  not  be  trusted 
with  the  custody  and  control  of  the  persons  of  other  peo- 
ple without  resulting  abuses. 

When  the  makers  of  the  Federal  constitution  were 
given  the  opportunity  to  do  away  with  slavery  in  the 
United  States,  by  so  loyal  a  son  of  the  South  as  Thomas 
. Jefferson,  and  rejected  it,  there  can  be  little  wonder  that 
the  ordinary  people  accepted  it  as  a  fixture  and  regulated 
their  entire  lives  with  it  as  a  part,  having  no  thought  that 
in  so  doing  they  were  wronging  anybody.  They  took  a 
condition  as  it  was  given  to  them,  with  the  sanction  of  the 
very  makers  of  the  government,  and  that  condition  could 
not  be  changed  afterwards  without  a  reconstruction  of 
the  very  fabric  of  social  and  civic  life. 

"Old  Sol"  and  "Aunt  Louise,"  though  slaves,  consid- 
ered themselves  just  as  much  a  part  of  the  Clarke  family 
as  any  other  members ;  and  in  fact,  if  it  were  given  to 
either  of  them  to  choose,  they  would  have  considered  them- 
selves of  so  much  importance  that  the  family  could  not 
properly  exist  without  them.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
family  would  have  been  lost  in  a  hopeless  maze  of  con- 
fusion had  these  two  colored  people  suddenly  taken  it  into 
their  heads  to  decamp.  But  they  had  grown  up  in  the 
household  and  the  "Gunnel"  and  the  "Missus"  were  to 
them  the  wisest  people  on  earth,  "exceptin',  of  course,  the 
old  Marse  and  Missus,"  now  known  all  around  as  Grand- 
father and  Grandmother  Clarke,  by  whom  they  had  been 
raised,  and  from  whom  they  came  down  to  the  possession 
of  the  Colonel. 

This  was  the  atmosphere  in  which  Bascom  Clarke  began 
his  existence.  He  was  six  years  old  when  the  family 
finally  came  to  the  decision  to  move.  His  father,  the  Colo- 
nel, was  a  surveyor,  and  the  Grandfather,  holding  a  land 
warrant  from  the  government  for  services  in  the  War  of 
1812,  decreed  that  they  would  go  to  the  great  state  of 
Texas,  obtain  his  tract  of  land  and  make  a  new  home. 
The  Colonel  would  find  much  to  do  in  his  profession  and 
the  children  would  have  a  greater  opportunity  than  they 

[3] 


could  possibly  have  in  the  Old  Dominion.  It  was  in  the 
days  when  fathers  did  not  lose  their  place  entirely  with 
the  growth  to  manhood  of  the  son,  and  the  son  did  not 
refuse  to  respect  tke  wishes  of  his  father  simply  because 
he  had  grown  beyond  his  legal  right  to  dictate.  Besides, 
the  plan  was  attractive  and  gave  great  promise. 

To  the  older  folk  the  move  was  a  serious  matter,  one  to 
be  measured  and  calculated  for,  but  to  the  children  it  was 
a  frolic.  A  long,  long  journey  overland  through  a  strange 
country  would  be  in  the  nature  of  a  holiday  excursion, 
with  no  thought  on  their  part  of  a  burden  of  responsibility 
carried  by  the  elders. 

Little  Bascom  literally  grew  fat  on  the  excitement  of 
preparation.  He  was  here,  there  and  everywhere,  under- 
foot this  moment  and  not  to  be  found  the  next,  grabbed 
out  from  under  the  horses'  hoofs  and  put  in  a  place  of 
safety  only  to  be  narrowly  rescued  from  the  wheels  of 
the  wagon.  It  would  be  about  this  time  that  the  grand- 
mother would  call : 

"Bascom  Clarke,  come  heah  this  instant!" 

And  Bascom  would  go.  The  grandmother  was  never 
disobeyed.  She  had  so  ruled  her  own  household  that  im- 
mediate and  unquestioned  obedience  was  given  her  by 
everybody.  Even  Grandfather,  an  old  school  master, 
used  as  he  was  to  guiding  the  wayward  and  impatient 
youth  through  the  mazes  of  "readin',  writin'  and  'rith- 
metic ' '  with  the  aid  of  a  stout  hickory  stick,  never  thought 
of  going  contrary  to  the  mandate  of  his  spouse.  She  was 
a  woman  born  and  bred  to  rule,  and  yet  so  gentle  and 
sympathetic  as  to  be  universally  beloved.  Her  rare  judg- 
ment was  appealed  to  in  all  the  problems  of  the  family, 
while  in  sickness  no  one  in  all  the  community  could  equal 
her  in  nursing  the  stricken  one.  Had  she  been  a  man  she 
might  have  been  one  of  Virginia's  contributions  to  the 
presidency  of  the  nation,  but,  being  a  woman,  she  was 
content  with  the  loving  homage  of  her  family  and  friends 
and  the  opportunity  to  influence  the  community  toward 
right  things.  She  was  intensely  devout,  saturated  with 
the  word  and  spirit  of  the  Bible,  and  believed  in  teaching 


children  the  lessons  which  the  Good  Book  contains.  And 
they  learned  verses  and  chapters  from  the  beginning  of 
Genesis  to  the  last  of  Eevelations,  not  only  her  own  chil- 
dren but  her  children's  children,  and  even  her  slaves. 

This  grandmother,  practically  all  the  time  and  particu- 
larly at  this  time  of  confusion,  took  personal  charge  of 
Bascom  while  she  watched  the  detail  of  all  that  was  going 
on,  now  and  then  giving  directions.  Her  heart  was  al- 
ready touched  with  homesickness  as  she  noted  the  old 
family  property,  too  heavy  or  cumbersome  to  take,  pass 
under  the  hammer,  and  realized  that  she  was  seeing  the 
last  of  her  girlhood's  and  young  wifehood's  estate.  Yet 
she  jealously  guarded  and  shielded  the  little  lad  and  had 
time  to  amuse  him  in  her  own  way.  She  told  him  stories, 
most  of  them,  it  is  true,  being  narratives  plucked  from  the 
Bible,  but  she  invested  them  with  a  charm  and  romance 
which  made  them  vividly  interesting. 

The  morning  of  departure  came.  The  night  before 
everything  had  been  put  into  the  wagons  except  the  last 
few  things.  Notwithstanding  the  earliness  of  the  hour 
nearly  the  entire  population  of  the  village  of  Thompson's 
Landing  was  on  hand  to  give  parting  cheer  to  the  Clarkes. 
More  than  one  eye  was  dimmed  with  moisture  and  the 
tears  streamed  down  Grandmother's  cheeks.  The  day 
before  had  been  especially  hard  for  her.  Realizing  the 
probability  that  never  again  would  she  see  the  little  town 
which  had  been  to  her  a  home  for  so  long,  and  appreciat- 
ing the  fact  that  she  was  meeting  for  the  last  time  those 
people  of  whose  lives  she  had  been  a  part,  many  of  whom 
had  been  her  girlhood  friends,  she  choked  up  with  her 
emotion.  Little  Bascom  looked  on  with  wonderment  at 
her.  He  climbed  into  her  lap  and  put  his  arms  around  her 
neck,  trying  in  his  way  to  assuage  her  grief.  She  hugged 
him  close  to  her  and  smoothing  his  hair  back  she  said: 

"You  don't  understand,  honey.  You  don't  understand, 
but  sometime  maybe  you  will." 

And  years  afterwards  he  looked  heavenward,  as  he  saw 
in  his  memory  the  white-haired  old  lady 's  face,  and  softly 
said: 

[5] 


"Yes,  oh,  yes!  I  understand." 

As  many  of  the  family  as  could  be  were  placed  in  the 
carryall.  These  included  the  women  and  smaller  chil- 
dren with  the  Colonel  driving  the  two  big  bay  horses.  The 
only  other  rig  was  the  heavy  canvas-covered  lumber 
wagon,  drawn  by  two  mules.  In  this  were  the  provisions, 
cooking  utensils,  clothing,  bedding  and  such  things  as 
were  not  sold  because  of  their  intimate  association  with 
the  family.  Uncle  Sol  and  Aunt  Louise  were  in  charge  of 
this  latter  rig,  the  former  riding  the  near  mule  and  the 
latter  occupying  the  seat  in  front  where  she  could  give 
her  "ol'  nigger  man"  the  benefit  of  her  superior  feminine 
knowledge  of  how  he  should  conduct  himself. 

As  the  road  wound  around  on  a  curve  all  turned  to 
take  a  last  look  at  the  old  familiar  scenes.  As  they  did 
so  a  little  black  figure  was  noted  plowing  along  in  the 
dust  of  the  middle  of  the  road  quite  a  ways  back,  but  fol- 
lowing. Bascom  was  the  first  to  discover  the  identity  of 
the  pedestrian: 

"It's  Sammy,  Grandmother!     It's  Sammy!" 

Sammy  was  one  of  the  little  slaves  with  whom  Bascom 
used  to  play,  and  who  was  as  devoted  as  a  squire  to  his 
knight. 

The  teams  were  halted  and  waited  until  the  little  fellow 
came  up. 

1 '  Let  him  in,  Grandma !   Let  him  in ! "  cried  Bascom. 

"No,  Bascom,  he  can't  some.    He  doesn't  belong  to  us." 

"Yes,  he  does!  Ain't  he  always  belonged  to  us?  He's 
my  sorrel  horse,  Grandma,  and  I  want  him  here  with  me. 
Come  on,  Sammy!" 

He  jumped  up  and  down  and  wriggled  to  get  free  to 
join  his  playmate,  who,  by  this  time,  was  up  with  the 
wagons,  a  most  forlorn  and  pitiable  object.  Great  tears 
had  been  running  down  his  face  and  mingling  with  the 
dust  of  the  highway.  His  general  dejected  appearance 
would  have  been  amusing  to  the  older  ones  did  it  not 
denote  one  of  the  eternal  tragedies  of  life,  separation. 

"No,  honey,"  said  Grandma,  "He  can't  come  with  us. 
He  isn't  our  nigger  any  mo'  and  he  must  go  back." 

[6] 


"But  I  want  him,  Grandma,"  and  the  boy  broke  down 
at  the  thought  of  leaving  him  behind.  "I  ain't  got  no- 
body to  drive,  an'  there  ain't  nobody  min's  the  rein  like 
he  does.  Let  him  come." 

"No,  son,"  said  the  Colonel.  "He  doesn't  belong  to  us 
and  we  can't  take  him."  Then,  turning  to  Sammy,  he 
told  him  he  must  go  back.  He  did  it  kindly  and  with  a 
sympathy  in  his  voice,  but  with  a  firmness  which  left  no 
doubt  that  the  action  was  final.  The  pickaninny  looked 
at  his  young  "marse"  with  mournful  eyes,  and  Bascom 
screamed  with  anguish,  which  all  the  efforts  of  his  grand- 
mother failed  to  check.  The  Colonel  spoke  again,  the 
black  boy  slowly  turned  and  made  his  way  down  the  road 
toward  town  and  the  cavalcade  again  took  up  its  long 
journey.  It  was  hours  before  Bascom  could  be  brought 
to  a  cheerful  mood.  He  continually  called  for  Sammy, 
until  at  last  he  fell  asleep.  The  Grandmother  kissed  the 
tear-stained  cheeks  and  held  the  boy  closely  in  her  arms. 

"He  don'  understand,"  she  said,  "and  sometime  I  feel 
that  I  don'  understand,  either.  But  'God  moves  in  a 
mysterious  way  His  wonders  to  perform.'  What  I  don't 
understand  I  leave  to  him." 

The  Colonel  spoke  up : 

"It  will  be  solved  some  day,  Mother,  and,  as  you  say, 
in  God's  own  time,  but  it's  going  to  take  a  surgical  opera- 
tion by  a  Master  Hand  to  do  it.  God  grant  that  in  the 
operation  the  country  may  survive.  The  man  up  North 
who  is  demanding  emancipation  of  the  blacks  can't  know 
.  conditions  nor  measure  consequences.  To  thrust  these 
people  into  immediate  freedom  without  adequate  guard- 
ianship, those  who  have  never  known  responsibility,  who 
have  never  carried  an  independent  burden,  would  result 
in  chaos,  confusion  and  as  near  an  approach  to  hell  as  it 
is  possible  to  imagine.  With  ages  of  barbarism  and  cen- 
turies of  slavery  as  their  only  environment  he  who  ex- 
pects them  to  qualify  for  an  important  part  in  the  civil- 
ization of  the  world,  without  preliminary  training  and 
long  guiding  of  their  feet  in  the  right  road,  is  visionary 
indeed." 

[7] 


"Yes,  James,  I  know,"  responded  the  Grandmother, 
"but  if  the  time  is  comin'  when  the  system  which  we-all 
have  had  with  us  in  the  South  for  all  our  days  shall  be 
changed,  isn't  it  the  duty  of  all  of  us  to  do  what  we  can 
to  prepare  these  people  for  that  change  ?  They  are  nothin' 
but  children  and  should  be  treated  as  such.  I  thank  God 
that  no  niggah  of  mine  has  failed  to  be  taught  right  liv- 
ing. Take  Solomon  and  Louise  there  in  the  other  wagon. 
I  have  had  the  trainin'  of  them  nearly  all  my  life.  The 
fact  that  there  was  a  deed  which  conveyed  them  to  me  as 
property  did  not  lessen  my  duty  to  them,  and  I  have 
tried  to  teach  them  integrity  and  morality.  You  wouldn't 
say  they  could  not  take  their  place  as  free  people  and  not 
be  an  influence  for  right  living.  No!  You  may  say  they 
are  the  exception.  That  may  be  true.  But,  if  so,  is  not 
that  the  fault  of  the  people  who  have  had  the  custody  and 
control  of  these  people  all  these  years?  If  environment 
is  the  thing  which  counts,  we  who  create  the  environment 
for  them  are  responsible  if  it  be  not  such  as  tends  toward 
cleanly  lives." 

Just  then  little  Bascom  awoke  and  called  for  Sammy. 


£8] 


CHAPTER  II. 

Night  had  fallen  in  the  Cumberland  mountains,  after  a 
long,  hard  day's  drive,  most  of  the  way  up  hill.  Every- 
body was  tired,  for  all  who  could  had  walked  a  large 
part  of  the  way  to  ease  the  load  on  the  horses.  On  either 
side  of  the  road  was  a  dense  and  seemingly  impenetrable 
forest,  with  an  occasional  break  where  some  mountain 
stream  crossed  the  way.  The  great  wood-clad  domes  so 
shut  in  the  valley  that  the  sun  was  lost  long  before  time 
for  the  day  to  close.  Hence,  when  a  clearing  was  found 
which  would  make  a  good  camping  place  it  was  nearly 
dark.  Aunt  Louise  kindled  a  fire  and  went  back  to  a  creek 
they  had  just  crossed  to  get  water  for  the  coffee.  Uncle 
Sol  unhitched  the  horses  and  cared  for  them.  The  grand- 
father and  the  Colonel  unhitched  the  mules  and  staked 
them  out  for  the  night.  The  women  folks  got  out  the  bed- 
ding and  made  it  ready.  The  children  ran  about  in  play, 
the  older  ones  helping  with  the  preparations.  Each  was 
so  busy  that  it  was  some  time  before  Mrs.  Clarke  turned 
from  her  work  and  said : 

' '  Why,  where  is  Aunt  Louise  ? ' ' 

Sure  enough  the  fire  was  going  and  the  cooking  things 
there  at  hand  but  the  old  colored  woman  was  nowhere  to 
be  found.  They  called  to  her  and,  receiving  no  answer, 
a  hasty  search  was  made  in  the  direction  of  the  stream 
to  which  she  had  gone,  but  no  trace  of  her  could  be  found. 
Darkness  was  coming  on  rapidly  and  soon  the  shadows 
were  so  deep  that  it  was  impossible  to  see  ahead  any  great 
distance.  A  few  mountaineers'  cabins  scattered  along 
were  the  only  human  habitations  passed  during  the  day 
and  the  possibility  of  finding  the  woman  in  such  a  wilder- 
ness seemed  remote  indeed.  Grandfather  took  the  old 
flint-lock  musket  which  he  carried  in  the  War  of  1812  and 
made  a  detour  of  the  camp,  continually  calling  and  now 

[9] 


and  then  firing  the  gun.  Colonel  Clarke  took  the  big 
Colt's  revolver  and  followed  in  a  still  wider  circle.  Both 
came  back  with  no  news.  Some  mountaineers  who  had 
been  attracted  by  the  camp  and  drawn  also  by  the  shots, 
joined  in  the  general  search  which  was  prosecuted  all 
night,  each  man  keeping  as  closely  in  touch  with  his 
neighbor  as  possible,  but  all  effort  failed.  At  daybreak 
she  was  still  missing. 

A  hasty  supper  had  been  prepared  by  the  women  folk. 
The  elders  ate  but  little  in  their  worriment,  but  the  chil- 
dren developed  a  hunger  fully  as  strong  as  usual.  Then 
they  were  put  to  bed  and  soon  forgot  all  their  troubles. 
While  the  men  hunted  the  two  Madames  Clarke  kept 
vigil  around  the  campfire.  When  the  grandfather  and 
the  Colonel  reached  the  camp  after  one  of  their  tours, 
tired  and  discouraged,  Grandmother  dropped  to  her  knees 
and  prayed  the  Father  to  protect  the  servant  and  restore 
her  to  them.  It  was  the  eloquent  prayer  of  absolute 
faith,  and  out  there  in  the  solitude  of  the  mountains, 
where  the  grandeur  and  majesty  of  God's  handiwork  were 
on  every  hand,  and  where  it  seemed  human  effort  must  be 
unavailing,  each  felt  the  inspiration  of  the  great  silence. 
As  the  prayer  of  this  good  woman  was  lifted  up,  the  sin- 
cerity and  helplessness  of  the  appeal  must  move  the  In- 
finite Power  to  come,  and,  indeed,  they  could  almost  feel 
the  touch  of  the  Comforter.  Her  voice  was  broken  with 
the  sobs  of  her  great  emotion  and  the  tears  streamed  down 
her  cheeks.  None  could  doubt  either  her  faith  in  God  or 
her  love  for  her  servant.  When  she  arose  from  her  knees 
she  simply  said : 

"God  is  good!" 

Uncle  Sol,  dazed  by  the  calamity  which  had  befallen 
his  helpmeet,  and  not  knowing  what  to  do,  did  nothing 
but  walk  up  and  down  and  wring  his  hands.  He  got  up 
from  his  knees  after  the  prayer  and  shouted: 

"Praise  de  Lawd!" 

When  day  broke  the  search  was  prosecuted  with  re- 
newed vigor.  The  horses  were  mounted  and  parties  went 
in  every  direction.  But  still  no  sign  of  the  lost  one.  Sud- 

[10] 


denly,  from  the  direction  of  the  creek,  there  came  Aunty 
with  a  pail  of  water  in  her  hand  and  another  on  her  head. 
Mother  Clarke  was  the  first  to  reach  her  and  the  water 
flew  in  all  directions  as  she  hugged  her.  Then  everybody 
made  a  rush  and  she  was  hugged  and  kissed.  Even  the 
Colonel  and  Grandfather  put  their  arms  around  her  and 
told  her  how  glad  they  were  that  she  had  been  restored 
to  them.  The  children  climbed  into  her  arms  by  turns 
and  clung  to  her  skirts. 

"Bress  de  Lawd!  Bress  de  Lawd!"  she  said.  "Bress 
de  Lawd !  I 's  f oun '  my  folks ! ' ' 

The  signal  guns  were  fired  and  from  far  and  near  came 
the  searching  parties.  They  all  pressed  her  for  her  story, 
but  she  said: 

"I  ain't  got  time  to  tell  you-all  now.  I's  got  to  get 
breakfast  right  away." 

Both  the  grandmother  and  mother  told  her  to  rest,  that 
they  would  get  the  meal,  but  she  would  not  have  it.  Her 
place  was  at  the  fire  and  she  wouldn't  have  the  "miss- 
esses"  spoiling  their  hands  with  the  cooking.  So  she  set 
to  work,  and  such  a  meal  as  was  served  to  the  tired  party : 
bacon,  fried  apples,  coffee  and  white  bread.  When  it 
was  ready  all  knelt  while  Grandmother  lifted  her  voice 
in  a  prayer  of  thanksgiving.  Her  deep  earnestness  af- 
fected everyone,  and  Aunty  would  break  in  with: 

"Bress  de  Lawd!    Bress  de  Lawd !" 

When  breakfast  was  over  and  the  preparations  were 
made  for  moving  on,  the  old  colored  woman  told  her  story : 

"Af'r  I  got  de  water  I  foun'  some  chink  nuts  [chin- 
quabin]  an'  I  fought  dey  would  be  fin'  fob.  de  chillen. 
An'  den  I  stopped  to  get  'em,  an'  af 'r  I'd  picked  'em,  I 
tu'ned  'roun'  an'  de  creek  wan't  whah  I  left  it.  An'  I 
hunted  an'  hunted,  an'  couldn't  fin'  it.  An'  I  kept  hunt- 
in'  an'  huntin',  an'  it  got  dahk,  an'  I  got  scaihed.  Den  I 
run  dis  way  an'  den  I  run  dat  way,  an'  bimeby  I  knowed 
I  was  los'.  An'  I  kep'  goin'  tell  mah  laigs  wouldn't  go 
no  mo'.  An'  I  fell  down  'side  a  log.  An'  I  was  scaihed 
de  bears  an'  painters  'd  git  me.  An'  den  I  'membered 
ol'  missus  used  to  read  to  us  outen  de  Bible  dat  de  Lawd 

[11] 


was  always  wid  us,  an'  I  prayed  an'  prayed  an'  prayed. 
I  said,  'Oh,  Lawd,  I  bin  los'  an'  I  can't  fin'  mah  folks,  an' 
I's  scaihed,  an'  I's  run  an'  run  an'  run,  an'  I  can't  run  no 
mo',  an'  I's  tiyud  out,  an'  dere  ain't  nobody  can  do  nuffin 
fob.  me  'cept  You.  An'  You-all  know  mah  ol'  missus,  an' 
I  wants  to  fin'  huh,  an'  I  can't  fin'  her  'less  You-all  '11 
show  me  how.  I  know  You-all  know  my  ol'  missus,  Lawd, 
'cause  she  talks  to  yuh  ebery  day.  It's  de  Clarke  folks 
I  wan'  tub  fin',  Lawd,  an'  dey  is  quality  folk  from  ol' 
Vi'ginny,  an'  dey  is  somewhah  on  de  road,  an'  dey  am 
camped  fob  de  night.  An'  I  must  fin'  'em,  Lawd,  'cause 
dey-all  won't  have  nothin'  to  eat  outen  I  get  dah.  An' 
dey  need  me,  Lawd,  an'  I  needs  dem,  an'  we-all  needs 
each  udder.  An'  my  ol'  niggah  man,  Solomon,  he  needs 
me,  'cause  he  jes'  nach'ly  mek  a  ol'  fool  o'  hisse'f  ef  I 
ain't  dah  to  tek  cayah  o'  hem.  An'  I  aint'  got  nowhah 
to  go,  Lawd,  an'  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  so  You-all  '11 
hev  to  tell  me.  Fob  missus'  sake  fin'  me,  Lawd,  'cause 
I'm  los'  an'  she  worry  'bout  me,  an'  I  wants  my  folks, 
Amen.'  An'  den  I  felt  jes'  laik  I'd  et  er  meal  o'  vittles, 
an'  I  laid  down  'side  de  log  an'  went  to  sleep." 

"But  didn't  you  hear  the  guns,  Aunty?"  some  one 
asked. 

"Yess,  dem  shootin'  an'  bangin'  kep'  wakin'  me  up  all 
de  time,  an'  I  was  scaihed  tell  I  'membered  de  Lawd  wuz 
doin'  things  to  fin'  me,  an'  I  wanted  to  give  Him  time. 
Didn't  He  have  to  go  an'  fin'  whah  my  folks  was,  an'  den 
fin'  how  I  twisted  'roun'  in  de  woods  befoh  He  came  back 
to  show  me  de  way  out?  I  guess  dis  ol'  niggah  woman 
got  some  min'  yet.  He  jes'  nach'ly  tol'  me  tub  go  tub 
sleep  an'  wait  tell  mornin',  an'  den  He'd  see  about  it. 
An'  den,  when  de  mawnin'  was  heah,  an'  I  knowed  I'd 
have  tub  get  breakfast  fob  yuh-all,  an'  I  jes'  let  de  Lawd 
tell  me  which  way  tub  go,  an'  I  wasn't  'cited,  nob  scaihed, 
an'  I  jes'  walked  back  tell  I  foun'  de  buckets,  an'  got 
some  fresh  watah  an'  come  home.  Dat's  all." 

And  who  shall  say  that  the  prayer  of  this  simple  minded 
slave  woman,  joined  with  the  prayer  of  her  mistress  for 

[12] 


her  safety,  did  not  move  the  Almighty  to  intervene,  pro- 
tect her  and  bring  her  back  to  her  people  ? 

The  wagons  were  packed  and  after  bidding  the  friendly 
mountaineers  good-bye,  with  many  expressions  of  grati- 
tude to  them  for  their  help,  the  wagons  creaked  along  the 
mountain  road  again  toward  the  west.  Aunt  Louise,  proud 
beyond  measure  of  the  stir  she  had  created  and  the  im- 
portance she  had  acquired  by  her  experience,  occupied  her 
place  on  the  front  seat  of  the  wagon,  and  proceeded  to 
make  Uncle  Sol  feel  his  insignificance  by  her  comments. 

"Why  didn't  yuh-all  come  an'  git  me,  'stead  o'  lettin' 
me  stay  out  dah  in  de  woods  all  night?"  was  her  first  shot. 

"Why,"  quavered  Sol,  from  the  back  of  the  near  mule, 
"Why,  I  didn't  know  whah  yuh-all  was,  an'  I  didn't  know 
whah  to  go." 

"Yuh-all  didn't  cayuh,  dat's  all.  Me  outen  dah  in  de 
woods  tellin'  de  Lawd  all  about  yuh,  an'  yuh-all  jes' 
havin'  a  good  time!  Dat's  what  comes  o'  mawyin'  a 
Ca'olina  niggah  anyhow.  Dey  nevah  hev  no  sense." 

Silence  from  the  driver. 

"Why  didn't  yuh-all  come  lookin'  fer  me,  laik  yuh  did 
when  yuh  was  courtin'?  Ain't  I  as  good  fob  yuh  now  as 
I  was  den?  Prob'ly  yuah  min'  was  on  some  o'  dem  yaller 
gals  back  dah,  an'  yuh  didn't  cayuh  'f  I  nevah  got  back, 
er  'f  I  was  all  et  up  by  dem  varmints. ' ' 

"Why,  Louise,"  began  Solomon. 

"Don't  talk  back  to  me,  niggah!  I  know  yuh-all  too 
well.  I  specks  yuh  went  'roun*  dah  las'  night  wid  a  long 
face,  an'  made  'em  all  think  yuh  was  mou'nin'.  Yuh-all 
am  jes'  waitin'  fuh  me  tuh  die,  dat's  what  yuh  is,  an'  I 
knows  it." 

"Dey's  one  thing  shuah,"  retorted  Sol  from  his  vantage 
point,  "yuh-all  tongue '11  be  runnin'  foh  a  long  time  afteh 
yuh  is  dead,  an'  if  it  spits  ez  much  fiah  den  ez  it  do  now 
dey  may  make  a  mistake  as  to  which  place  dey  take  yuh ! ' ' 

It  was  a  good  thing  for  Solomon  that  he  was  far  enough 
away  from  Louise  to  prevent  her  reaching  him,  after  this 
dose  of  cannister.  So  she  changed  her  tactics,  and  used 
the  usual  woman's  weapon  of  tears. 

[13] 


"Yass,  I  knowed  it.  Dat  shows  yuh-all  don'  cayuh  'f 
I'm  livin'  or  dead,  an'  I  ben  doin'  everything  foh  yuh  all 
dese  yeahs, "  she  sobbed.  "I  wish  de  beahs  'd  et  me  up. 
Dat's  what  I  do.  Bern'  los'  all  night,  an'  den  come  back 
tub  be  'bused,"  and  she  wailed  and  rocked  herself  back 
and  forth  in  her  grief. 

Of  course  this  was  more  than  Solomon  could  stand,  and 
he  began  to  pacify  her  as  best  he  could,  realizing  that  his 
last  speech  was  rather  beyond  the  bounds  of  gallantry.  It 
was  seldom  he  turned,  but  when  Aunt  Louise  got  started 
on  one  of  her  talking  streaks,  with  him  as  the  object  of 
attack,  she  usually  kept  on  until  he  fired  red  hot  shot  in 
retaliation.  Then  they  spent  hours  in  patching  up.  Usu- 
ally he  kept  silence,  scarcely  commenting  on  his  action, 
either  in  defense  or  explanation.  She  would  keep  up  a 
run  of  musket  fire  until  she  happened  to  hit  him  in  some 
exposed  part,  and  then  he  would  respond  with  artillery. 
Then  the  soothing  balm  would  be  applied  to  her  injured 
feelings. 

"Did  I  tell  yuh,  Louise,  dat  de  Kunnel  said  I  could  get 
yuh  a  new  dress  when  we  got  to  Nashville,  honey?"  he 
asked. 

"I  don't  want  no  new  dress,"  was  the  sulky  response. 

"An'  it's  goin'  to  be  red,  and  have  yaller  ribbons  to 
fly  all  'round  on  it,"  continued  Sol. 

"De  Kunnel  nevah  said  it,"  slowly  came  forth. 

"An'  when  yuh  have  hit  on  jes'  think  how  proud  I'll 
be  when  we  walk  down  de  street  in  de  face  ob  dat  po' 
white  trash  an'  Tennessee  niggahs." 

"When  we  gwine  ter  get  to  Nashville,  Solomon?" 


[14] 


CHAPTER  III. 

When  camp  was  made  one  night,  on  a  bold  promontory 
above  the  "White  River,  it  was  little  thought  by  any  that 
they  had  reached  the  end  of  their  journey.  Texas  was 
still  a  long  ways  off,  and  they  were  in  the  wilds  of  Arkan- 
sas. All  day  long  they  had  been  following  the  bends  of 
the  river,  now  on  the  bottoms  and  then  on  the  highlands 
where  the  river  wound  below  them  like  a  great  silver 
ribbon.  Some  of  the  waterways  of  the  world  are  more 
famous  for  their  scenery,  and  yet  none  can  excel  for 
majestic  sweep  and  picturesque  shore  the  White  of  Ar- 
kansas. And  especially  was  this  true  in  the  time  before 
the  war,  and  before  the  heavy  forests  had  given  way  to 
the  woodsman's  axe.  More  than  once  that  day,  when  the 
horses  had  been  stopped  for  a  breathing  spell,  the  travel- 
ers had  been  inspired  to  exclaim  at  the  picture  spread  at 
their  feet.  As  night  came  on  a  fit  place  was  found  for 
camp  under  some  wide-spreading  trees.  Good  grazing 
was  near  for  the  animals,  and  a  little  stream  tumbling 
down  hill  to  the  river  furnished  water. 

Aunty  had  lighted  her  fire,  and  the  coffee  pot  was  al- 
ready yielding  its  rich  perfume  when  there  came  two 
quick  shots  echoing  from  tree  to  tree  and  a  magnificent 
deer  fell  dead  in  the  very  midst  of  the  campers.  Before 
they  could  recover  from  their  surprise  there  came  tearing 
out  of  the  woods  the  following  hunter.  Somewhat  taken 
back  at  finding  the  place  occupied  by  people  he  never- 
theless was  possessed  of  native  gentility.  Reining  in  his 
horse  he  took  off  his  hat  and  said: 

"I  shot  a  buck;  but  I  reckon  I  didn't  get  him!" 

"I  reckon  you  did,"  responded  the  Colonel.  "There 
he  is." 

The  stranger  dismounted,  and  going  up  to  the  party 
extended  his  hand  to  the  colonel : 

[15] 


"I  am  Bob  Crockett,  suh,  grandson  of  old  Davy  Crock- 
ett. I  live  close  by  here,  and  I  would  be  delighted  to  have 
you-all  as  my  company  while  you  stay." 

"And  my  name  is  Clarke,  suh,"  answered  the  Colonel, 
warmly  accepting  the  greetings,  "Colonel  James  F. 
Clarke,  from  Vuhginyuh,  and  we  are  on  our  way  to 
Texas." 

"Bob"  was  then  presented  to  the  rest  of  the  family, 
and  from  this  casual  meeting  there  sprang  a  friendship 
which  lasted  so  long  as  there  was  alive  a  Crockett  or  a 
Clarke.  Who  had  not  heard  of  Davy  Crockett  and  his 
tragic  defense  of  the  Alamo  ?  And  here  was  his  grandson, 
not  only  righteously  proud  of  his  lineage  but  a  fit  repre- 
sentative of  the  stock.  Strong,  lithe,  supple,  with  a  frank, 
genial  personality,  in  an  instant  he  not  only  had  the  ad- 
miration but  the  confidence  of  all. 

Although  the  Colonel  demurred  at  burdening  him  with 
the  family,  Crockett  pressed  his  hospitality  with  such 
eager  earnestness  that  in  a  short  time  his  invitation  was 
accepted  and  the  prospect  of  again  feeling  floor  boards 
under  the  feet  and  sleeping  in  real  beds  put  everybody 
in  god  humor. 

Bob  Crockett's  home  was  not  a  pretentious  affair,  but 
that  it  was  the  abode  of  happiness  and  hospitality  was 
apparent  the  moment  the  party  entered.  Few  men  would 
have  the  temerity  to  impose  upon  his  house  unannounced 
such  a  party  as  Bob  took  into  his  home  that  night.  But 
"Aunt  Mollie,"  as  she  came  to  be  known  afterwards  by 
the  Clarkes,  added  a  welcome  to  that  of  her  husband 
which  left  no  doubt  of  its  genuineness  in  the  minds  of 
her  guests.  Bob's  mother,  a  splendid  type  of  well  pre- 
served American  womanhood,  joined  her  daughter-in-law 
in  the  courtesies  of  the  occasion,  and  took  to  her  particu- 
lar charge  Grandmother  Clarke,  thus  beginning  a  friend- 
ship which  lasted  so  long  as  they  were  alive. 

While  Bob  was  not  rich  he  owned  a  good  farm  and 
enough  hands  to  work  it,  but  to  a  man  with  his  nervous 
energy  the  life  of  a  planter  would  be  too  tame.  He  had 
been  well  educated,  and  especially  trained  for  the  law, 

[16] 


which  profession  he  was  supposed  to  follow  and  in  which 
he  would  have  made  a  success  had  he  devoted  his  time 
and  energy  to  it.  But  he  filled  his  life  so  full  of  all  the 
affairs  of  the  community  that  he  had  little  time  to  devote 
either  to  his  plantation  or  his  profession. 

It  is  true  that  he  had  served  as  public  prosecutor  and 
by  his  relentless  administration  of  that  office  became  a 
terror  to  evil  doers.  This  office,  however,  was  a  political 
position  and  came  to  him  as  Bob  Crockett  the  politician 
rather  than  Bob  Crockett  the  lawyer,  although  he  was 
especially  qualified  to  fill  it  from  a  professional  stand- 
point and  as  a  lover  of  law  and  order.  His  heart  went 
into  all  work  he  did,  and  while  he  would  prosecute  with 
vigor,  and  his  fiery  eloquence  would  cause  the  offenders 
to  cringe  and  writhe,  yet  he  was  the  first  to  extend  a  help- 
ing hand  to  the  one  who  really  evinced  a  desire  to  reform 
and  lead  a  correct  life.  It  was  told  of  him  in  later  life 
that  he  had  obtained  a  verdict  of  guilty  against  a  man 
who,  during  a  quarrel,  had  shot  and  killed  another,  and 
the  prisoner  was  given  a  year  in  jail.  Bob,  becoming  con- 
vinced afterwards  that  the  man  had  acted  in  self  defense, 
secured  his  pardon  on  his  own  recommendation.  When 
the  war  broke  out  this  man  was  one  of  the  first  to  enlist 
in  Bob's  regiment  and  fought  under  him  during  the  con- 
test between  the  states. 

The  mental  picture,  which  unconsciously  comes  to  all, 
of  Davy  Crockett,  the  pioneer — rough,  hard  and  power- 
ful of  physique1 — was  not  borne  out  in  the  descendant. 
Bob  was  slender  in  figure,  dapper  in  vesture,  and  with 
feet  so  small  he  could  wear  his  wife's  shoes  without  diffi- 
culty. In  his  younger  days  he  had  run  for  a  time  under 
rather  a  reckless  head  of  steam,  but  had  been  converted 
through  the  ministrations  of  a  circuit  rider  whose  force, 
logic  and  earnestness  had  brought  Bob  up  standing  face 
to  face  with  his  duty  and  responsibility  to  God  and  his 
fellow  men.  Nothing  was  ever  done  half  way  by  Bob, 
once  he  started,  and  following  his  conversion  he  was  wont 
often  to  use  his  splendid  intellect  and  eloquence  as  a  lay 
preacher. 

2  [17] 


Though  affable  and  gentle  as  a  woman  under  ordi- 
nary circumstances,  he  was  a  veritable  flame  of  passion 
when  aroused.  He  would  follow  an  enemy  implacably 
and  indefatigably,  but  would  reach  out  his  hand  in  for- 
giveness at  the  first  show  of  amends.  Everybody  re- 
spected him,  and  those  who  were  privileged  to  get  close 
to  him  loved  him.  The  humblest  and  blackest  negro  in 
the  community  would  have  crawled  on  his  hands  and 
knees  to  serve  Bob  Crockett  and  considered  himself 
blessed  of  God  to  have  the  privilege,  while  the  wealthiest 
planter  in  Arkansas  was  honored  to  call  him  his  friend. 
His  advice  was  sought  and  freely  given  on  every  sort  of 
problem  that  comes  to  either  individual  or  community  in 
a  place  like  Mount  Adams.  He  knew  more  life  stories, 
and  had  helped  to  solve  more  complex  situations  than  is 
usually  given  to  one  man.  Whether  it  was  love,  business 
or  political  affairs  which  needed  adjustment,  the  appeal 
usually  got  to  him  in  the  last  analysis  at  least. 

He  was  a  walking  encyclopedia  on  nearly  every  topic 
on  which  information  was  desired.  His  wide  experience, 
broad  reading,  keen  observation  and  quick  intuition  made 
him  indeed  a  fit  court  of  last  resort.  He  was  equally 
adept  at  determining  the  value  of  a  hand  in  poker  or 
passing  upon  the  relative  merits  of  the  Old  and  New 
Testaments.  He  could  run  a  horse  race  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  all  concerned  and  conduct  a  Sunday  school  with 
all  the  dignity  and  reverence  of  the  sincere  and  devout 
man  he  was.  He  could  fight  a  duel  if  the  provocation 
were  sufficient  or  sit  by  the  bedside  of  a  sick  man  and 
with  tender,  sympathetic  touch  alleviate  the  pain.  He 
could  discourse  with  the  learned  stranger  on  the  phil- 
osophy of  Socrates  or  the  proper  translation  of  Egyptian 
hieroglphics  or  tell  the  little  boy  how  to  fashion  his  kite 
so  that  it  would  fly.  He  could  write  a  dissertation  on 
political  economy  with  one  hand  and  tickle  a  baby  into 
merry  laughter  with  the  other. 

Money  to  him  was  valuable  only  as  a  rapidly  circulat- 
ing medium  for  the  benefit  of  others.  Generous  to  a  fault, 
he  was  quick  to  resent  imposition  when  it  became  ap- 

[18] 


parent  to  him,  but  just  as  prone  to  fall  for  the  same  game 
when  the  next  appeal  was  made.  He  had  no  use  for  a 
whiner,  but  his  help  went  to  the  person  in  hard  luck 
before  it  was  asked.  This  is  the  kind  of  a  man  who  had 
quickly  measured  the  quality  of  the  Clarkes  and  extended 
to  them  the  hospitality  of  his  home. 

On  the  broad  chimney,  above  the  fireplace,  the  place  of 
honor  in  a  Southern  manor,  hung  an  old  flint-lock  rifle. 
It  was  Davy  Crockett's  "Betsy,"  the  gun  which  is  inti- 
mately associated  with  the  pioneer  life  of  the  old  scout 
and  Indian  fighter.  It  was  taken  down,  passed  around 
and  admired  by  the  guests,  and  the  prowess  and  char- 
acter of  its  former  distinguished  owner  commented  upon. 
The  elder  Mrs.  Crockett  had  known  "Davy"  well,  and 
her  story  of  his  life  and  deeds,  told  then  and  afterwards 
in  the  presence  of  Bascom,  made  a  lasting  impression  on 
him.  This  was  the  time  when  the  stories  of  border  life 
and  Indian  warfare,  fresh  in  the  minds  of  their  immediate 
ancestors,  were  told  the  children  by  the  older  folk  and 
written  into  harrowing  tales  read  with  avidity  by  both 
old  and  young. 

In  the  evening,  "Bob"  Crockett,  the  Colonel  and  the 
Grandfather  talked  long  and  earnestly,  the  first  of  the 
possibilities  in  that  immediate  region  and  the  last  two 
of  their  hopes  on  leaving  Virginia  for  the  West. 

"Why  go  to  Texas?"  asked  Bob.  "Right  heah  is  just 
as  good  land  as  you  can  find  out  doors,  I  reckon,  and  it 
can  be  had  from  the  government  for  the  asking.  You  are 
a  surveyor,  Colonel,  and  there's  not  a  better  spot  for  a 
town  than  on  this  bluff.  You  can  see  there  is  a  natural 
place  for  a  landing  down  there,  and  the  city  will  be  lo- 
cated far  enough  up  so  that  high  water  will  not  affect  it. 
This  river  is  navigable  all  the  year  and  there  is  plenty 
of  cotton  to  go  down  and  plenty  of  supplies  to  go  back. 
This  place  ought  to  be  as  good  a  location  as  any  on  the 
river.  Take  a  day  or  two  off  from  your  journey  and  look 
around  and  I  believe  you  will  not  go  farther." 

The  next  day  and  the  next  and  two  or  three  others  were 
spent  in  looking  over  th  field,  with  the  result  that  the 

[19] 


Clarke  family  settled.  They  took  up  their  government 
claims  and  purchased  still  more  land  with  the  gold  that 
Grandfather  had  obtained  from  the  sale  of  his  govern- 
ment warrants  earned  by  him  in  the  national  military 
service. 

Mount  Adams,  as  the  place  was  called,  began  to  thrive, 
in  fact  it  had  a  boom.  Corner  lots  in  the  business  dis- 
trict brought  good  prices,  and  soon  a  dry  goods  "empo- 
rium," a  grocery  store  and  refreshment  stand  combined, 
a  ten  pin  alley  and  "grocery"  opened  for  business.  Boats 
stopped  at  the  landing  to  discharge  their  cargoes  on  the 
up-trip  and  take  on  their  load  of  cotton  and  produce  re- 
turning. There  was  plenty  of  work  for  everybody,  with 
the  usual  proviso  that  no  one  ever  did  anything  a  "nig- 
ger" could  do.  All  the  rough  labor  and  much  that  re- 
quired even  higher  skill  was  done  by  the  slaves. 

The  town  seemed  destined  to  a  stable  and  prosperous 
future.  "With  its  rapid  growth  there  came  as  the  usual 
natural  accompaniment  of  those  days  gambling,  horse- 
racing  for  high  stakes,  and  some  of  the  grosser  evils  found 
in  the  wake  of  sporadic  prosperity.  While  churches  were 
built  it  must  be  admitted  that  they  had  meager  attend- 
ance although  liberally  supported.  There  was  no  public 
school.  Such  a  thing  as  that  was  scarcely  known  at  that 
time  in  the  South.  Not  even  a  private  school  found  a 
place  among  the  enterprises  of  the  village  for  several 
years.  Each  family  was  supposed  to  look  after  the  edu- 
cation of  its  own  members.  And  the  necessity  for  educa- 
tion did  not  then  appeal  to  these  people  as  it  would  in 
the  present  day.  All  round  them  were  examples  of  men 
who  had  made  money  with  scarcely  any  book  knowledge. 
They  had  learned  to  read  and  to  figure,  and  shrewdness 
in  business  matters  counted  more  than  mental  train- 
ing. The  plantations  were  little  kingdoms,  and  were 
measured  by  the  number  of  "niggers"  it  took  to  run 
them. 

Saturday  afternoon  was  the  time  for  a  general  meeting 
of  the  planters  of  the  neighborhood.  Every  available 
hitching  post  was  occupied,  most  of  them  with  saddle 

[20] 


horses,  a  few  with  pretentious  rigs  when  the  women  folk 
vouchsafed  that  they  would  come  into  town  to  do  a  little 
shopping  and  gossiping  on  that  day.  Nearly  every  plan- 
tation had  some  fine  racing  stock  in  its  stables,  and  the 
merits  of  each  was  known  throughout  all  the  country. 
Once  in  a  while  a  new  horse  with  fast  proclivities  would 
be  brought  into  the  neighborhood,  and  immediate  and 
genuine  interest  was  shown  in  its  possible  speed.  The 
favorites  were  backed  liberally  and  those  who  sought  to 
wrest  their  honors  from  them  were  usually  compelled  to 
do  it  with  a  good  fat  bank  roll  as  a  condition  precedent. 
Money  flowed  as  freely  as  the  contents  of  the  barrels  in 
the  "grocery,"  where  Colonel  James  Thomas  Upshire 
Hawkins  presided. 

These  Saturday  afternoons  also  furnished  a  forum  for 
the  discussion  of  politics,  not  the  local  affairs  which  might 
be  disposed  of  in  a  breath,  but  the  broad  national  ques- 
tions which  just  then  were  holding  tense  the  relation  be- 
tween the  northern  and  southern  sections  of  the  country. 
The  great  gulf  of  thought  and  interest  which  intervened 
between  these  two  parts  of  the  Union  was  as  well  illus- 
trated in  this  little  community  as  anywhere  else.  The 
conservative  thinkers  were  also  conservative  talkers,  ex- 
cept in  rare  instances,  while  the  hotheaded  fire  brands 
spread  flames  of  passion  recklessly  in  every  direction. 

Hawkins'  grocery  was  usually  the  scene  of  the  debates, 
although  the  word  debate  can  hardly  be  applied,  as  the 
sentiments  expressed  were  nearly  always  toward  one  end, 
though  by  different  routes.  Hawkins,  between  acts  of 
ministering  to  the  thirst  of  the  assembled  land  barons, 
would  interject  a  pointed  comment  which  sometimes 
caused  a  general  laugh  at  the  expense  of  one  or  more  of 
the  disputants. 

"Some  day  those  folks  up  Nawth  '11  fin'  out  this  inter- 
ferin'  with  ouah  property  is  mighty  serious  business," 
said  old  Dave  "Watson,  just  after  the  latest  news  of  the 
congressional  discussion  then  going  on  had  been  read 
from  the  Memphis  paper.  "What  right  have  they  to  tell 
us  now  what  to  do  with  the  niggers?  They  helped  us  get 

[21] 


'em  in  the  fust  place,  an'  then  because  they  couldn't  use 
'em  an'  we  could  they  want  to  steal  'em  from  us  by  pass- 
in'  laws  that  they  are  to  be  free." 

"They  won't  set  'em  free  'thout  a  fight,"  said  Wilson, 
a  young  planter  who,  on  the  death  of  his  father,  had  suc- 
ceeded to  the  possession  of  a  large  plantation  with  about 
eight  hundred  slaves.  "I'm  heah  to  tell  yuh  that  law 
or  no  law  they  ain't  goin'  to  have  my  niggers  'cept  ovah 
my  dead  body,  and  some  of  'em  go  with  me  to  the  king- 
dom come  when  I  go,  too !" 

"But  I  understand  the  more  reasonable  of  them  want 
to  pay  for  the  niggers  out  o'  the  national  treasury  when 
they  set  'em  free,"  said  Lawyer  Billings. 

"Pay  foh  'em!"  said  Wilson,  "Pay  foh  'em!  They 
ain't  'nough  money  in  the  United  States  treasury  to  pay 
foh  the  niggers.  Niggers  is  niggers  in  the  South.  No, 
suh,  they  cain't  pay  foh  'em  with  money.  This  thing  is 
either  right  or  it's  wrong.  If  it's  right  they  ain't  no  right 
to  offer  to  pay  foh  'em,  and  if  it's  wrong  we  ain't  no 
right  to  keep  'em.  An'  besides,  it's  as  much  ouah  money 
as  theirs  that  they're  offerin'  to  use  to  buy  'em  with." 

"Yes,"  said  Hawkins,  "It'd  be  like  me  tradin'  a  cod- 
fish to  myse'f  foh  a  sack  o'  salt  an'  then  thro  win'  the  salt 
in  the  rivah." 

"No,  suh,"  continued  Wilson,  "my  niggers  is  my  nig- 
gers, and  they  don 't  belong  to  the  United  States  and  nevah 
did.  I'm  livin'  in  Arkansaw  and  when  we  cain't  do  in 
Arkansaw  with  ouah  property  as  we  want  to  without 
bein'  set  upon  by  those  outside  people  who  don't  know 
nothin'  about  it  it's  time  Arkansaw  went  by  herse'f  and 
run  things  to  suit  her  own  people." 

This  sentiment  met  with  almost  unanimous  applause. 

Just  then  Bob  Crockett  and  Grandfather  Clarke  hap- 
pened along. 

"Hello,  Bob,"  some  one  called  out.  "Howdy,  suh, 
cap'n,"  to  the  old  gentleman. 

"We've  just  declared  wah,  Bob,"  said  another,  "an' 
we  want  to  know  whether  yuh-all  air  ready  to  fight." 

"I  don'  want  no  wah,  and  I  ain't  much  on  the  fight," 

[22] 


answered  Bob,  good  naturedly,  "but  who  yuh-all  goin'  to 
wah  with?" 

"With  the  United  States  of  America,  by  gad,  suh," 
snapped  a  hotheaded  planter  who  up  to  this  time  had  not 
joined  in  the  conversation,  having  been  too  busily  engaged 
with  the  liquids  from  Hawkins'  barrels. 

"I'd  be  sorry  to  have  such  a  thing  occuh,  suh,"  said 
Bob.  "I  cain't  forget  that  the  United  States  of  America 
was  held  pretty  high  by  Grandfather  Davy,  an'  that  that 
same  United  States  of  America  avenged  his  death.  I'm 
ready  to  fight  foh  her,  gentlemen,  but  I'd  hate  mightily 
to  have  to  fight  against  huh." 

"Goin'  to  takes  sides  with  the  damned  Yankees,  air 
yuh?"  demanded  the  same  hothead,  "an*  help  'em  steal 
ouah  niggers !  An'  yuh  a  grandson  of  ol'  Davy  Crockett !" 

Bob's  eyes  flashed  dangerously  as  he  said  quietly: 

' '  I  made  my  statement,  gentlemen,  as  a  gentleman,  and 
I  stand  ready  to  back  it  as  a  gentleman  at  any  time  or 
place  or  any  distance!" 

The  cooler  ones  saw  the  dangerous  trend  of  the  conver- 
sation and  quickly  hastened  to  interfere. 

"Jim  didn't  mean  it,  Bob.  He's  a  little  in  liquor  and 
don'  know  yuh  as  we  do.  Let  it  pass,  there's  a  good  fel- 
low. It'll  be  all  right."  Then,  turning  to  the  offending 
one,  he  said  under  his  breath,  "Apologize,  damn  yuh,  or 
we'll  all  take  a  shot  at  yuh.  You  mout  as  well  say  yer 
prayers  as  meet  Bob  Crockett.  You'd  better  get  some 
sense  in  that  addled  brain  of  youah's  quick." 

The  offending  one,  partially  sobered  by  the  earnestness 
of  his  adviser,  came  to  enough  to  mutter  something  which 
was  taken  as  sufficient  apology,  and  then  lapsed  into  the 
next  stage  of  his  indisposition  and  went  to  sleep. 

"I've  sometimes  wished,"  put  in  Grandfather  Clarke, 
who  was  always  listened  to  with  the  utmost  respect,  "I've 
sometimes  wished  never  a  nigger  had  been  brought  to 
this  country.  They've  been  the  bone  of  contention  con- 
tinually and  have  done  moh  to  keep  us  apart  as  a  people 
than  any  other  one  thing." 

"But  what  would  we  have  done  without  'em,  Cap'n?" 

[23] 


"That's  mere  speculation,  of  course,"  said  Grandfather. 
"But  no  problem  has  evah  yet  been  put  up  to  the  Ameri- 
can people  that  they  could  not  solve  if  given  time.  This 
country  would  have  been  developed  south  without  them 
just  as  it  has  been  no'th,  suh.  Of  cou'se,  probably  in  a 
different  way  than  it  has  been  with  them,  but  the  south- 
ern people  are  just  as  capable  of  meeting  conditions  and 
getting  the  best  of  them  as  any  other  people  on  earth.  If 
some  epidemic  should  wipe  out  every  nigger  in  the  coun- 
try you'd  fin'  the  men  who  are  now  making  use  of  'em 
because  they  are  here  would  be  the  first  to  devise  ways  of 
getting  along  without  'em.  You  cain't  tell  me  that  a 
man  who  has  as  good  a  business  head  as,  for  instance, 
Mr.  Wilson,  heah,  couldn't  run  his  plantation  if  they 
wan't  a  nigger  within  a  thousand  miles — not  at  first,  of 
cou'se,  because  it  would  take  time  to  recover  from  the 
shock  of  the  change  and  get  readjusted.  But  he'd  rise 
triumphantly  ovah  the  worst  obstacle  and  you'd  fin'  his 
acres  at  last  yieldin'  their  just  proportion  of  wealth." 

"I'd  hate  tuh  do  it,  suh,"  said  Wilson,  who  had  been 
listening  to  Grandfather,  "an'  I  thank  yuh  fob  the  com- 
pliment, but  I  don'  expect  the  time  will  ever  come  when 
I  won't  have  my  own  hands  working  my  plantation.  I'll 
fight,  suh,  an'  it  will  be  a  case  of  the  South  fightin'  foh 
her  homes  and  people,  and  she'll  win." 

"I  hope,  suh,"  continued  Grandfather,  "that  it  will  not 
be  necessary  to  go  to  war  and  especially  against  our  own 
people.  It  would  be  cruel  indeed." 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  suh,"  said  Wilson,  "they  won't 
fight.  What  they  got  to  fight  foh?  Nothin'  but  a  passel 
of  niggers  they  don't  own !  What  've  we  got  to  fight  for? 
Everything!  We'll  lick  'em,  an'  then  they'll  leave  us 
alone." 

"Don't  be  too  sure,  Mr.  Wilson,  that  they'll  stop  fight- 
in'  when  yuh-all  begin.  I  had  some  of  'em  with  me  in  the 
Wah  of  Twelve,  an'  when  they  was  fightin'  I  couldn't  tell 
which  was  a  Nawthener  and  which  was  a  Southener.  An' 
I'm  thinkin'  if  evah  they  gets  to  goin'  in  a  real  struggle 

[24] 


both  sides  '11  know  they's  been  a  fight.    I  hope  it  won't 
come,  suh.    God  help  us  if  it  does." 

"An'  if  it  does  come  both  sides  will  be  prayin'  to  the 
same  God  to  help  'em  win,"  said  Hawkins.  "I've  often 
wondered  how  He's  goin'  to  answer  both  prayers.  If 
yuh  want  God  to  help  yuh  when  yuh-all  air  fightin'  yu'd 
bettah  put  nothin'  but  powder  in  yuh  guns.  Yuh  can  get 
the  noise  of  conflict  an'  miss  the  scene  of  carnage." 


125] 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Old  Arkansas  was  teeming  with  seccession  spirit  long 
before  any  overt  act  had  precipitated  the  great  struggle. 
The  attitude  of  Abraham  Lincoln  on  the  question  of  slav- 
ery had  filtered  through  such  prejudiced  and  impassioned 
strata  that  the  ordinary  people  looked  upon  him  as  a  veri- 
table monstrosity  of  fanatical  bias.  In  him,  according  to 
their  view,  was  concentrated  the  essence  of  all  that  the 
loudest  agitators  had  ever  said  on  the  subject  of  slavery. 
And  when  the  problem  of  remaining  with  the  Union  after 
his  election  came  up  to  these  people  they  were  illy  pre- 
pared mentally  to  give  it  that  wise  judicial  consideration 
to  which  it  was  entitled. 

The  war  spirit  was  being  continually  fanned  into  a 
fury  of  flames,  and  all  that  was  necessary  to  send  the  mer- 
cury of  their  mental  thermometer  soaring  high  was  for 
some  speaker  to  barely  hint  at  an  attack  upon  the  insti- 
tution of  slavery.  Conservative  men  there  were,  indeed, 
who  counseled  delay  in  any  action  until  at  least  the  new 
administration  had  demonstrated  by  some  move  its  an- 
tagonism to  the  South.  But  this  counsel  was  swept  aside 
in  a  cyclone  of  popular  fury,  and  even  the  counselors 
themselves  were  charged  with  disloyalty  to  their  state 
and  their  people  for  making  such  a  suggestion. 

In  the  state  of  Arkansas,  as  in  every  other  southern 
state,  there  were  some  free  negroes.  So  high  was  the  feel- 
ing against  emancipated  colored  people  that  the  Arkansas 
legislature  passed  a  law  giving  them  a  limited  time  to 
leave  the  commonwealth  or  be  returned  to  slavery.  An 
exodus  of  free  negroes  followed,  and  the  pitiful  condition 
of  these  friendless  people  as  they  reached  the  free  states 
did  much  to  arouse  an  indignation  there,  and  give  excuse 
at  least  for  much  of  the  intemperate  language  uttered  on 
that  side  of  the  line.  In  Mount  Adams  this  law  was  re- 

[26] 


ceived  with  general  expressions  of  satisfaction.  Such  men 
as  believed  it  to  be  unjust  found  it  useless  to  argue,  and 
in  fact  from  this  time  on  the  man  who  cried  out  against 
the  onward  sweep  of  seccession  spirit  jeopardized  his 
property  if  not  his  life. 

Little  part  was  taken  by  the  Clarkes  in  the  discussion 
of  affairs  in  Arkansas,  for  they  were  newcomers  to  the 
state,  and  felt  that  they  were  not  sufficiently  a  part  of 
the  people  to  presume  to  dictate  in  local  affairs.  Both  the 
grandfather  and  the  Colonel  were  great  admirers  of 
Stephen  A.  Douglas,  and  felt  that  his  elevation  to  the 
presidency  would  help  to  avert  a  conflict,  and  result  in 
reuniting  the  people  in  spirit. 

"There  is  much  untamed  talk,  son,"  said  Grandfather, 
at  the  table  one  day.  "Talk  that  don'  sound  right  to  me. 
They  don't  talk  sense,  but  just  wild  and  crazy-like. 
They's  some  that's  even  talkin'  the  'Empire  of  Arkan- 
saw.'  I  hope  I'll  nevah  live  to  see  the  day  when  the  ol' 
flag  I  fought  for  will  give  place  anywhah  in  this  Union 
to  any  otheh  ensign." 

Poor  Grandfather!  Little  did  you  realize  that  your 
hope  was  to  be  fulfilled,  but  not  in  the  way  you  then  ex- 
pected. 

"I  just  had  a  letter  from  Tilford  Heck,  back  theah  in 
Vuginyuh,"  answered  the  Colonel,  "an'  he  says  things 
are  boilin'  there.  It  would  seem  from  his  letteh  that  the 
agitators  are  in  the  saddle  in  the  Old  Dominion.  I  am 
sorry  for  that,  suh,  for  I  am  a  true  Vuhginian  yet.  I  told 
Tilford,  in  my  letteh  to  him,  that  I  felt  her  star  was 
dimmed  at  that  Charleston  convention.  Perhaps  she 
could  not  do  mo'  with  the  trammels  she  had  on.  I  am 
anxious  to  watch  huh  cou'se  in  the  coming  Baltimore  con- 
vention. If  she  is  true  to  huhse'f  an'  the  Union  it  will  be 
all  right — otherwise  we  will  all  be  sadly  disappointed.  I 
tol'  him  not  to  believe  all  the  tales  the  newspapehs  gave 
of  this  southern  country,  an'  that  we  were  all  foh  Doug- 
las foh  president.  I  don'  believe  the  masses  are  fireaters. 
It  is  only  the  few  who  are  in  power  who  want  to  see  the 
Union  jeopardized  by  their  ultra  cou'se.  I  tol'  him  we 

[273 


love  the  union  of  these  states  too  well  to  give  up  the  ship 
without  a  hard  fight,  an'  that  I  felt  that  if  they  back 
thah  in  Vuhginyuh  would  stand  firm  against  this  cou'se 
the  whole  South  would  back  'em;  but  if  on  the  otheh  han' 
they  side  with  these  dissension  partisans  who  aim  only  at 
their  own  aggrandisement  we  would  spurn  them  and 
stand  against  this  tribe  in  ouah  midst  single  handed,  and 
that  if  fall  we  must  it  would  be  through  the  mistaken 
views  of  ouah  fo'mer  friends.  I  tol'  him  we  were  just  as 
much  opposed  to  the  southern  fire-eaters  as  to  the  most 
ultra  northern  freedom  shriekers.  They  both  have  the 
same  object  in  view.  As  extremes  meet,  so  with  them. 
They  meet  and  fight  back  to  back  against  the  Union." 

''I'm  mighty  proud  to  heah  you  talk  that  way  son,  an' 
it's  all  right  to  talk  so  heah  at  ouah  own  table,  but  it's 
gettin'  so  you  cain't  talk  that  way  down  town.  Of  cou'se 
we  comin '  from  Vuhginyuh  makes  'em  look  on  us  without 
suspicion,  but  they  barter  'roun'  what  this  one  said  an' 
that  one  said  down  theah  an'  they  don'  hesitate  to 
threaten  to  make  it  hot  foh  anyone  who  does  not  coincide 
with  theah  views.  Even  Bob  Crockett,  though  a  Union 
man  so  far  as  loyalty  is  concerned,  has  been  poisoned  an' 
inflamed  by  this  continual  harpin'  on  the  wrongs  which 
are  to  be  perpetrated  if  this  one  is  elected  or  that  one  is 
elected  until  he's  with  'em  foh  fightin',  though  he  won't 
consent  to  harmin'  any  of  ouah  own  people  heah  who 
don'  agree  with  'em.  You-all  air  so  busy  with  youah 
wo'k  yo'  don'  heah  all  that's  goin'  on,  son,  an'  it  will  be 
just  as  wise  if  you-all  keep  on  wo 'kin'  an'  don'  talk  poli- 
tics. It's  been  my  obse'vation  that  these  two  occupations 
nevah  did  agree  nohow  (wo 'kin'  and  talkin'  politics) 
an'  that  of  the  two  wo'k  got  the  most  pay." 

"Oh,  I'll  keep  on  wo 'kin,  suh,  but  nobody  evah  yet 
stopped  a  Clarke's  mouth  through  fear,  an'  I  shan't  hesi- 
tate to  say  what  I  think." 

' '  That 's  all  very  well,  son,  but  if  you-all  air  busy  theah 
won'  be  much  chance  foh  you  to  get  in  your  lick  of  talk, 
foh  most  of  it  is  done  by  people  who  don't  seem  to  have 
much  to  do,  an'  by  the  time  you-all  air  ready  to  rest 

[28] 


they's  so  much  in  liquor  that  they've  got  beyond  the 
point  of  youah  associatin'  with  them.  Some  of  these  fel- 
lows talk  as  though  all  they  had  to  do  to  get  shet  o'  this 
Union  is  to  unhook  the  traces.  I'm  afraid  they's  goin' 
to  be  some  hard  days  fob.  somebody  befo'  they-all  fin'  out 
that  the  government  is  somethin*  mo'  than  a  piece  of 
parchment  with  names  hitched  to  it." 

"Is  theah  goin'  to  be  a  wah,  an'  fightin',  Gran'ther?" 
piped  up  young  Bascom  from  the  foot  of  the  table. 

"No,  honey,  we  hope  not,"  said  Gran'ther.  "Why, 
what  put  that  into  youah  head?" 

"Willie  Trims  said  that  his  father  said  that  Judge  Rey- 
nolds said  that  they  was  goin'  to  lick  the  damned  Yan- 
kees. Who  is  the  damned  Yankees,  Gran'ther?" 

The  table  was  stupefied. 

' '  Why,  Bascom  Clarke ! ' '  said  his  mother. 

"Bascom!"  said  his  father. 

"Why,  honey,  wheah  on  ea'th  did  you  get  such  lan- 
guage?" said  his  grandmother. 

But  Grandfather's  eyes  twinkled  as  he  said  with  great 
severity : 

' '  Well,  son,  I  seem  to  be  the  only  one  who  comprehends 
the  question  without  noticing  youah  innocent  profanity. 
You  know  when  Grandmother  reads  to  you  out 'en  the 
Bible  she  sometimes  slides  ratheh  light  ovah  certain  words 
as  she  reads.  I  think  that's  a  mistake,  because  by  that 
means  she  does  not  convey  to  youthful  min's  like  youahs 
the  proper  interpretation  of  the  words  therein  contained. 
'Damned'  is  a  word  made  use  of  frequently  in  the  Good 
Book,  to  indicate  those  that  God  has  no  fuhtheh  use  foh. 
They  air  the  people  who  air  put  into  a  lake  of  fiah  an' 
brimstone  afteh  they  die  an'  nevah  get  out  of  it.  You-all 
have  heard  the  parson  tell  'bout  hell  fiah  an'  damnation, 
haven't  you,  son?" 

"Yes,  suh,"  responded  Bascom,  "an'  it  always  made 
me  shake  like  I  was  cold." 

"Shuah,"  continued  Grandfather.  "Now,  I  believe 
you  have  in  youh  min'  the  full  meaning  of  that  word,  an' 
because  it  makes  the  col'  chills  run  up  an'  down  the  backs 

[29] 


of  people,  and  theahf o '  tends  to  make  'em  uncomfortable, 
the  word  is  used  only  on  rare  occasions,  an'  nevah  in  po- 
lite society.  Therefo'  I  trust  that  you-all  will  not  use  it 
otherwise,  Bascom." 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  Bascom. 

"Theah  may  be  times,  son,  when  theah  ain't  no  othah 
word  in  all  the  language  which  will  fit  in  the  place  but 
just  that  one,  an'  mos'  everyone  is  tempted  to  use  it  once 
in  a  while.  But  because  of  its  terrible  association  good 
people  don'  use  it  'less  as  a  las'  resort,  an'  in  case  of 
great  stress.  Do  you  think  you-all  unde'stan'  the  word 
now,  son?" 

"Yes,  suh." 

"Now,  as  to  what  is  a  Yankee,  minus  the  cuss  word: 
Now,  I  reckon  this  heah  Judge  What's-his-name  hisse'f 
wouldn't  think  the  two  words  could  be  properly  sepa- 
rated, an'  I  reckon  that's  about  the  trouble  down  South 
heah." 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  Bascom,  uncomprehending  but  re- 
spectful. 

Grandfather  came  to  himself,  and  again  recognized  his 
youthful  interrogator. 

' '  Oh,  yes,  a  Yankee !  Well,  a  genuine  Yankee,  the  origi- 
nal stock,  you  know,  has  to  be  bo'n  in  New  England,  an' 
be  so  dried  up  from  lack  of  good  things  to  eat,  an'  with- 
ered from  hard  winters  as  to  be  absolutely  distinguishable 
from  the  rest  o'  the  human  race.  They  must  be  able  to 
show  that  theah  gran 'father 's  gran 'father's  gran 'father 
came  ovah  in  the  Mayfloweh  an'  that  none  o'  the  tribe 
has  so  much  as  touched  foot  outside  the  boundaries  o' 
New  England  since,  except  when  they  went  to  sign  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  or  took  upon  themselves  the 
onerous  job  o'  tellin'  how  the  gove'nment  should  be  run 
in  the  halls  o'  Congress.  They  mus'  recognize  Boston  as 
the  place  whah  all  culchuh  begun  an'  ended.  Now  we 
come,  son,  to  the  people  designated  as  damned  Yankees 
by  the  distinguished  Judge  What's-his-name:  All  people 
who  exist  in  the  United  States  of  America  who  do  not 
own  slaves,  ('cept  o'  cou'se  the  po'  white  trash  heah  who 

[30] 


wouldn't  know  what  to  do  with  'em  if  they  had  'em), 
come,  accordin'  to  the  dictionaries  of  the  South,  under  the 
double  and  cussful  definition  of  double-blanked  Yankees. 
In  otheh  words,  son,  we  own  slaves  down  heah  in  the 
South,  an'  they  don'  own  slaves  up  No'th.  Therefo'  we 
air  supposed  by  men  like  this  Judge  What's-his-name  to 
hate  'em  like  pizen,  an'  so  to  us  at  least  they  are  supposed 
to  be  cast  into  outer  darkness,  or  damned.  Now,  on  the 
otheh  han',  to  the  Judge  What's-his-name  of  the  No'th  we, 
being  of  a  different  opinion,  and  surrounded  by  different 
influences,  are  by  them  presumed  to  belong  to  those  whom 
God  has  cast  aside  and  forgot,  an',  I  suppose,  are  therefo' 
damned  so  far  as  they  are  concerned.  Now,  son,  don'  let 
these  people  heah  make  you  think  that  the  Yankees  air 
any  thin'  mo'  than  flesh  an'  blood  like  youse'f,  an'  take 
it  f'm  youah  Gran'ther  who  has  slept  with  'em  an'  ate 
with  'em  that  if  I  was  to  take  the  ordinary  Yankee  and 
the  ordinary  Southerner  an'  stan'  'em  side  by  side  you 
couldn't  tell  the  difference.  In  my  min'  they's  all  one 
people.  They're  (ahem!)  fools  on  both  sides  o'  the  line, 
son,  but  the  great  mass  o'  the  people's  alike.  Don'  you 
ever  be  af eared  to  go  Nawth  an'  mingle  with  'em.  You'll 
fin'  'em  jest  as  generous,  jest  as  hospitable,  an'  jest  as 
good  folks  as  you  fin'  heah  or  anywhere  else  in  the  South. 
Whatevah  comes  in  youah  life,  you  can  always  trust  them 
as  has  the  stars  and  stripes  foh  they-all  flag.  Youah 
Gran'ther's  gettin'  old,  an'  God  may  call  him  any  time, 
but  you-all  jest  'member  that  God  intended  this  to  be  one 
country  an'  one  people  under  one  flag,  an'  the  tortures 
o'  the  damned  will  come  to  those  who  try  to  take  out 
one  star." 

Grandfather's  eyes  blazed  as  he  gave  evpression  to  his 
patriotism,  to  which  the  freedom  of  his  own  fireside  per- 
mitted him  to  give  full  vent. 

"Yes,  suh!"  said  Bascom. 

"I  don't  like  the  talk,  Colonel,"  concluded  the  old  man, 
giving  his  son  his  title  in  full  dignity,  a  rare  thing  for 
him,  "I  don'  like  the  talk  an'  I'm  afeered  they's  trouble 

[31] 


ahead,  but  I  believe  with  you-all  the  good  ship  will 
weather  the  storm." 

''My  faith  in  the  greatness  of  the  Almighty  makes  me 
believe  He  will  solve  the  problem,"  added  Grandmother. 

''Amen!"  from  the  Colonel. 


To  Grandmother  Clarke  little  Bascom  owed  practically 
all  the  education  he  received  in  his  early  boyhood.  His 
mother,  cumbered  with  the  care  of  the  household,  had  but 
little  time  to  devote  to  any  one  of  the  children.  So  the 
grandmother,  in  the  absence  of  other  facilities,  and  de- 
termined that  there  should  be  at  least  the  foundation  of 
knowledge,  used  the  Christian  Advocate,  the  great  Metho- 
dist Church  organ,  and  the  Bible  to  teach  him  his  letters. 
As  a  consequence  the  boy  missed  the  log  school  house  and 
birch  rod  accessory  of  his  northern  contemporaries  in  his 
earlier  years.  However,  he  was  in  the  hands  of  a  stern 
and  strict  disciplinarian,  for  Grandmother  was  a  firm  be- 
liever in  strict  attention  to  the  thing  at  hand,  and  kept 
Bascom  to  his  tasks  until  he  was  able  to  read.  She  also 
taught  him  to  write  and  to  figure. 

When  a  small  private  school  was  established  in  the  vil- 
lage he  had  the  advantage  of  a  few  weeks'  training,  but 
the  war  put  an  end  to  anything  like  systematic  education. 
However,  the  constant  encouragement  he  received  from 
his  grandmother  to  learn  things  and  a  desire  on  his  own 
part  to  know  things  contributed  to  give  him  that  founda- 
dation  for  a  broad  practical  education  which  stood  him 
in  good  stead  in  later  years.  No  one  can  estimate  the  in- 
fluence oP'this  good  woman  on  his  life.  She  lived  her 
Christianity.  Her  soul  was  an  open  book  before  the  Lord, 
and  she  inculcated  her  faith,  absolute  and  complete,  in 
her  grandson. 

"Honey,"  she  said,  "Never  doubt  Him.  There  will 
come  days  when  you  think  He  has  deserted  you;  when 
you'll  wonder  why  you  can't  find  Him.  Pray  to  Him,  Bas- 
com, pray  with  all  your  min'  an'  strength,  and  the  light 
will  come." 

[32] 


Fed  upon  this  sublime  faith  it  is  little  wonder  that  in  all 
his  after  years  he  never  failed  to  reach  up  after  the  Om- 
nipotent Hand  when  the  stress  of  earthly  events  threat- 
ened to  overwhelm  him. 

"Faith,  honey,"  she  said,  "is  the  golden  chain  by  which 
Love  holds  Confidence.  Hope  is  the  co'ner  stone  of  right- 
eous determination.  Charity  is  the  perfume  of  Christ's 
influence.  I  want  you  to  be  a  good  man,  Bascom  boy.  I 
want  you-all  to  live  so  somebody  will  thank  God  you  were 
bo'n.  You-all  air  mighty  hotheaded  sometimes,  honey, 
and  you  ain  't  goin '  to  get  through  youah  life  without  some 
ha'd  knocks. 

"You-all  air  goin'  to  fin'  that  the  world  is  full  of  folk 
who  air  nothin'  but  pretenders.  They  pretend  they  have 
faith,  but  if  they-all  don'  have  love  and  confidence  you'll 
know  they're  jest  pretendin'.  They'll  be  tellin'  how 
much  hope  they  own,  but  if  you-all  look  closely  and  fin' 
they-all  ain't  tryin'  to  he'p  somebody  else  git  higher  set 
'em  down  as  pretenders.  You'll  heah  folk  tellin'  how 
much  charity  they  have,  but  if  you  cain't  fin'  anyone 
who  goes  down  on  his  knees  an'  with  the  tears  stream- 
in'  down  his  cheeks  thanks  God  that  these  partic'lar 
charity  shouters  was  bo'n  you-all  can  make  up  youah 
min'  they-all  Christlike  perfume  is  a  sham. 

"When  I  was  young,  honey,  an'  about  the  time  youah 
Grandfather  was  cou'tin'  me,  a  very  dear  frien'  o'  mine 
brought  me  from  Paris  some  attar  o'  roses.  I  used  jest  a 
little  drop  o'  it  in  the  draw'  wheah  I  kept  my  fine  linen, 
and  it  stayed  and  stayed  and  stayed,  and  was  always 
jest  the  same  delicate  hint  of  the  flower.  Somebody  gave 
youah  sister  some  a  while  ago,  boughten  down  heah  to  the 
sto'.  It  smelt  all  right  to  sta't  with,  but  in  a  little  while 
when  you  opened  the  draw'  it  smelled  mo'  like  campheen. 
Whatevah  you  air  be  it,  honey.  The  Lord's  goin'  to  meas- 
ure yuh  by  what  yuh  air,  at  the  finish,  and  as  He  is  the 
only  one  that  really  counts,  what's  the  use  o'  livin'  a 
sham  all  youah  life? 

"They  was  a  man  back  theah  in  Vuhginyuh,  Simeon 
Trask,  po'  white  trash.  He  nevah  had  a  chance.  His 

s  .33] 


father  was  a  drunken,  shiftless  vagabond  and  his  mother 
a  ne'er-do-well,  ignorant  and  slovenly.  Nobody  trusted 
any  o'  'em,  root  or  branch.  I  saw  Simeon  take  a  bleedin' 
an'  crushed  dog  which  somebody  had  run  ovah  in  the 
road,  and  wash  its  wounds  and  dress  'em,  and  care  for 
the  dog  till  it  got  well  and  strong.  I  saw  him  stop  one  day 
and  free  a  little  bird  that  'd  got  tangled  in  some  netting 
and  lift  it  high  and  watch  it  with  satisfaction  as  it  swiftly 
flew  back  to  its  nestlings.  I  saw  him  pick  up  a  little  nig- 
ger girl  that'd  sprained  her  ankle  and  couldn't  walk, 
and  carry  her  to  her  cabin.  I  believe  Simeon  Trask  '11 
come  closer  to  gettin'  to  heaven  finally  than  the  hypo- 
critical 'Squire  Allen  who  would  spend  a  half  houah  at  a 
time  tellin'  the  Lord  all  about  what  he  wanted  the  Lord 
to  do,  while  almost  befo'  he'd  said  'Amen'  he'd  be  fig- 
gerin'  how  he  could  squeeze  a  dollah  out  o'  some  po' 
man  he'd  got  wheah  he  couldn't  wiggle!" 

And  it  was  this  kind  of  talk  that  gave  Bascom  the 
foundation  of  faith,  hope  and  charity  upon  which  rested 
his  after  life.  The  Clarke  home  was  characterized  by 
open  frankness  between  the  members  of  the  household. 
The  children  were  never  in  a  state  of  repression  and  re- 
straint, although  early  trained  to  absolute  and  unques- 
tioning obedience. 

The  mother,  though  not  physically  strong,  was  an  ener- 
getic, indefatigable  worker.  She  was  the  home-maker 
for  Colonel  Clarke,  and  that  was  sufficient  for  her.  She 
was  proud  of  her  husband,  and  her  whole  life  was  de- 
voted to  him  and  her  family.  She  wanted  no  broader  field 
of  action,  and  was  content. 

The  grandfather,  dignified,  straight  and  vigorous,  not- 
withstanding four  score  years  had  crept  upon  him,  en- 
joyed the  respite  from  labor  which  his  age  gave  him,  but 
possessed  a  keen  interest  in  the  questions  of  the  day.  He 
and  Bob  Crockett  kept  enough  wild  game  in  the  larders 
of  the  two  households  to  render  unnecessary  recourse  very 
often  to  the  staple  bacon,  ham  and  salt  pork. 

In  the  spring  of  1860,  the  old  gentleman  went  out  after 
ducks  in  the  river  bottom.  The  fowl  were  on  their  way 

[34] 


up  from  the  far  south  and  were  resting  by  the  thousands 
in  and  about  the  waters  of  the  White.  While  wading  in 
the  overflow  retrieving  some  ducks,  the  grandfather 
caught  cold,  pneumonia  resulted,  and  in  a  few  days  this 
splendid  character  had  yielded  to  the  great  conqueror. 

It  was  Bascom's  first  close  observation  of  the  grim  de- 
stroyer's work.  As  he  looked  into  the  face  and  saw  no 
smile  of  recognition  and  felt  no  hand  reach  out  to  rest 
lovingly  on  his  head,  his  little  heart  was  broken.  He  and 
Grandfather  had  been  comrades,  and  the  old  man  had 
talked  to  him  about  the  great  problems  of  life,  had  ad- 
vised with  him  about  proper  lines  of  conduct.  The  full 
realization  of  what  it  all  meant  did  not  come  to  him  until 
later. 

As  the  days  came  and  went,  and  he  missed  the  tender 
companionship  and  solicitude  of  this  old  cavalier,  he 
could  not  reason  out  why  this  loss  had  come  to  them.  Un- 
consciously he  would  turn  to  Grandfather  to  help  him 
unravel  some  tangle  of  perplexity,  only  to  remember  that 
they  had  taken  him  to  the  little  cemetery  on  the  hill. 
Over  there  the  little  boy  would  go  and  stand  close  by, 
looking  at  the  mound  of  fresh  earth,  as  though  the  loved 
voice  might  come  to  him  from  the  grave. 

Grandmother  seemed  to  change.  Before,  she  had  been 
a  part  of  this  world  and  its  activities.  Now,  she  could 
be  seen  looking,  looking,  ever  looking,  as  if  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  inside  of  the  great  beyond,  where  he  had 
gone.  She  would  touch  with  tenderness  the  things  about 
the  house  which  were  his.  The  old  flint-lock  musket  hung 
above  the  fireplace,  and  the  more  modern  fowling-piece, 
which  he  had  used  on  the  day  when  he  was  out  last,  stood 
in  a  corner.  She  was  lonely,  lonely,  and  all  the  world 
would  not  be  company  to  her  now.  All  the  years  she  had 
lived  with  him,  with  scarce  the  separation  of  a  day,  came 
back  in  a  troop  of  memories.  Now  when  she  talked  to  Bas- 
coiri,  it  was  about  the  grandfather.  She  told  him  stories 
of  his  boyhood  and  the  things  in  his  life  which  went  to 
develop  his  strpng  character. 

[35] 


"I  felt  like  murmuring,  honey,"  she  said  softly,  one 
day,  "I  felt  like  murmuring,  for  he  was  good,  and  God 
took  him.  But,  oh,  I  praise  God  that  I  had  him,  that  all 
these  years  He  has  permitted  me  to  know  and  love  and 
keep  him.  And  now,  I  can  only  say,  'The  Lord  hath 
given,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away.  Blessed  be  the 
name  of  the  Lord.'  " 


[36J 


CHAPTER  V. 

"I  understan',  suh,"  said  Will,  the  oldest  son,  address- 
ing his  father  one  morning  at  the  breakfast  table,  "I 
understan'  Wade  Andrews  los'  ten  niggers  las'  night." 

"How'd  they  get  away?" 

"They  didn't  get  away,  suh.  He  los'  'em  at  pokah. 
Theah  was  a  pretty  big  game  runnin',  and  a  fellow  from 
down  Memphis  way  made  a  eleanin'." 

"A  man  that'd  gamble  away  his  niggers  ain't  fitten  to 
have  'em,"  chimed  in  the  grandmother.  "I  don'  wondah 
some  people  get  a  bad  impression  of  slaveholders.  A  man 
like  Wade  Andrews,  who  has  no  mo'  consideration  for 
his  people  than  to  barter  'em  at  a  gamin'  table,  does  mo' 
to  stir  up  harsh  feelin's  than  the  thousands  of  slavehold- 
ers who  look  upon  theah  slaves  as  part  o'  the  family 
can  do  to  justify  holdin'  'em.  What  is  the  Memphis  man 
goin'  to  do  with  the  niggers?" 

"I  understan'  they-all  is  to  be  sold  tomorrow  mawnin' 
at  the  market  place,  all  'cept  one,  a  big  nigger  that  the 
man  is  goin'  to  take  down  to  Memphis  with  him,  because 
he  thinks  he  can  get  a  better  price." 

"That's  what  I  don'  like  about  the  whole  thing,"  an- 
swered Grandmother.  "It's  always,  'How  much  money 
can  I  make  out  of  'em?'  If  God  put  these  people  in  ouah 
han's  we  ought  to  keep  'em  togetheh.  They  ain't  like 
cattle  and  sheep.  If  we  barter  'em  'roun  in  selfish  hope 
to  make  money  outen  'em  I  believe  we'll  be  punished 
for  it." 

"Look  out,  Mother,"  chaffed  the  Colonel,  "somebody '11 
cha'ge  you  with  bein'  an  ab 'litionist ! " 

"I  ain't  no  ab 'litionist.  I'm  a  Christian,  an'  if  the 
South  will  mix  a  little  mo'  Christianity  in  the  treatment 
of  its  bond-people  it  will  be  in  better  condition  to  stand 
on  its  legs  and  uphold  its  right  to  'em.  Go  back  to  youah 

[37] 


Bible  and  see  what  God  did  to  Pharaoh  when  he  forgot 
how  to  treat  the  chil'en  of  Israel!  He  cleared  a  path  for 
'em  to  get  away,  and  Pharaoh  los'  all  of  them.  They  was 
mighty  valuable  to  Pharaoh,  too,  and  it  took  the  ol'  king 
a  long  time  to  get  hisse'f  and  his  people  so  they  could 
get  along  without  'em.  We  ought  to  take  warnin'!" 

"It  don'  seem  to  me,"  said  Mother  Clarke,  "that  Aunt 
Lou  and  Uncle  Sol  would  be  any  bettah  off  if  they  were 
free  than  they-all  be  now." 

"No,"  responded  Grandmother,  "probably  they-all 
wouldn't  be  as  well  off  as  they  air.  But  you-all  know  all 
the  niggers  in  the  South  ain't  Aunt  Louises  and  Uncle 
Sols,  and  all  the  people  in  the  South  ain  't  Clarkes ! ' ' 

"I  don'  see  what  the  people  up  Nawth  want  to  bothah 
about  our  niggers  foh,  an  way,"  pursued  Mother.  "We 
ain't  interferein'  with  any  of  theah  doin's.  We-all  air 
mindin'  ouah  own  business,  and  why  cain't  they-all  let 
us  alone?" 

"But,  Mother,"  answered  the  Colonel  to  his  wife's 
query,  "that's  where  the  trouble  comes.  They  say  we-all 
ain't  mindin'  ouah  own  business,  but  want  to  push  slav- 
ery into  their  territory.  I  agree  with  you  that  if  the 
southern  politicians  had  been  content  to  let  well  enough 
alone,  and  have  slavery  confined  to  the  part  of  the  coun- 
try where  it  originally  was,  and  had  not  sought  to  extend 
it  into  new  states  as  they  were  made  there  would  have 
been  no  trouble,  at  least  not  foh  years  to  come.  But  they 
have  spit  fiah  at  each  otheh  down  theah  at  Washin'ton, 
these  Southern  hotheads  and  Nawth 'n  agitators,  till  they- 
all  have  agreed  to  disagree  on  every  question,  no  matter 
what.  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  what  the  question 
is,  nor  how  unimpohtant,  they  finally  get  agoin'  on  slav- 
ery. All  hands  immediately  forget  they-all  air  repre- 
sentin'  the  people  of  the  United  States,  and  divide  them- 
selves into  Southerners  and  Nawthe'ners.  Then  each  one 
of  'em  goes  home,  and  tells  the  people  what  great  things 
he  has  done  and  said,  and  repeats  some  of  the  hot  stuff, 
and  the  people  get  on  fiah  who  don'  stop  to  reason,  and 
hate  each  otheh  as  a  result." 

[38] 


"They-all  say,  suh,"  broke  in  the  oldest  son,  "that  the 
South  is  goin'  out  of  the  Union  and  form  a  gove'ment 
of  its  own." 

"That  wouldn't  solve  the  question,  son,"  answered  the 
Colonel.  "If  they-all  cain't  solve  this  matteh  among 
themselves,  as  man  to  man,  and  reach  such  a  settlement 
as  will  be  fair,  just  and  equitable  to  all,  war  is  the  inevi- 
table result.  Down  heah,  if  men  don'  agree,  they  some- 
times fight  a  duel,  and  one  or  the  other  of  them  or  both 
sometimes  get  pretty  badly  hurt.  If  I  am  not  mistaken 
we  may  see  a  duel  on  a  large  scale.  I  do  not  natter  my- 
se'f  it  will  be  a  bloodless  duel.  Some  one  is  bound  to  get 
hurt.  Every  drop  spilled  will  cry  out  in  anguish  that  this 
great  nation,  built  for  liberty  and  with  every  provision 
for  the  settlement  of  all  questions  by  the  votes  of  the 
people,  was  a  failure.  If  this  gove'ment  fails  to  stand 
then  we  might  as  well  bid  good-bye  to  democratic  gove'- 
ment forever." 

"Bob  Crockett  is  in  foh  fightin',  suh,"  continued  Will. 
"He  says  if  Arkansaw  goes  out  of  the  Union  he's  goin' 
with  her." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Colonel  with  a  touch  of  sadness, 
"Men  seem  to  be  putting  the  state  above  the  Union.  Fol- 
lowing that  to  its  logical  conclusions  and  you  will  later 
find  the  counties  arraigned  against  the  state,  and  then 
the  towns  against  the  counties,  until  there  is  no  longer 
a  great  big  national  patriotism,  and  all  things  will  be 
viewed  through  the  glasses  of  the  locality.  Bob  is  im- 
petuous, and  he  won't  stop  to  reason  out  the  matter  much. 
He  will  be  swung  into  line  as  soon  as  that  fighting  spirit 
of  his  is  appealed  to,  and  he'll  fight,  too,  there's  no  gain- 
sayin'  that." 

"I  wish  Grandfather  was  here,"  softly  spoke  the  old 
lady.  "He'd  help  'em  all  to  understand.  I  wish  he  were 
here.  I  cain't  seem  to  get  the  right  of  this  at  all.." 

"Father  couldn't  stem  the  tide  alone,  Mother,"  gravely 
answered  the  Colonel,  "and  if  we  were  to  have  a  war  be- 
tween the  states  and  against  the  gove'ment  it  would  break 

[39] 


his  heart  to  see  any  other  flag  in  the  air  as  representing 
any  part  of  the  American  people." 

"Perhaps  it  is  better  he  is  at  rest.  Perhaps  it  is  best. 
God  knows  best.  But,  oh,  I  do  miss  him  so." 

No  eye  was  dry  at  the  table,  for  each  missed  him  in  his 
or  her  own  way. 

"If  they's  goin'  to  be  any  fightin',  suh,  and  Bob  Crock- 
ett goes,  I  am  goin'  too,  suh,  with  youah  permission,"  con- 
tinued the  oldest  son. 

"You  ain't  agoin'!  You  ain't  agoin'!"  put  in  Mother 
Clarke.  "They-all  won't  need  you.  Let  them  do  the 
fightin'  that  wants  a  war,  and  let  my  chil'en  alone !  Don't 
talk  like  that,  child,  you-all  air  too  young  to  go  to  war!" 

"I'm  seventeen  years  old,  Mother,  and  Bob  Crockett 
says  I  handle  a  gun  like  an  old-timer." 

"Bob  Crockett!  Bob  Crockett!  Why,  Bob  Crockett 
was  bo'n  and  raised  to  fight.  He's  got  fight  in  his  blood, 
but  you  was  bo'n  in  peace  and  of  a  peace-lovin'  family. 
They  ain't  no  use  talkin',  honey,  you  ain't  agoin'!" 

"I  come  from  a  fightin'  family,  too,  Mother.  Wasn't 
Grandfather  one  of  the  bravest  and  best  men  that  evah 
was,  and  isn't  my  father  one  of  the  best  soldiers  in 
America,  even  if  there  hasn't  been  any  war  for  him  to 
fight  in?" 

"Youah  grandfather  and  youah  father  air  different. 
You  air  only  a  boy,  and  it  would  be  a  shame  to  take  you- 
all  away  from  youah  family  and  make  you  fight,  and 
maybe  be  killed,"  and  she  commenced  to  cry  at  the  very 
thought  of  it. 

The  father  comforted  her  and  told  her  not  to  worry. 
There  wasn't  any  war  yet,  and  the  boy  hadn't  gone  to 
fight  and  be  killed. 

"When  the  time  comes  we  will  look  the  matter  square 
in  the  face,"  said  the  Colonel,  "and  you  shall  do  that 
which  your  conscience  dictates  is  right.  I  shall  feel  as 
badly  as  your  mother,  William,  but  when  it  comes  to  a 
question  of  duty  I  shall  not  stand  between  my  children 
and  what  they  believe  way  down  in  their  hearts  is  right, 

[40] 


if  it  involves  no  matter  that  reflects  on  their  moral  char- 
acter." 

"Don't  let  him  go,  James,"  spoke  up  Grandmother, 
"he  is  too  young." 

"If  none  but  the  men  of  mature  judgment  and  ripe  ex- 
perience did  the  fighting  there  would  be  but  few  wars. 
It  takes  cool  heads  and  trained  minds  to  lay  out  the  plan 
"f  campaign,  but  its  accomplishment  must  depend  to  a 
great  measure  on  the  impetuosity  and  impulsiveness,  dash 
and  abandon  of  the  young  man  who  doesn't  stop  to  think 
of  consequences.  The  older  man  measures  first  and  acts 
afterwards.  The  young  man  acts  and  lets  the  other  fellow 
do  all  the  measuring." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  and  then  Grandmother 
said  again: 

"I  wish  Granfather  was  here." 


The  next  day  Bascom  saw  the  slaves  sold.  As  each  one 
came  forward  and  stood  upon  the  platform  where  all 
could  see  and  examine  them  the  auctioneer  in  a  sing-song 
tone  told  of  the  merits  of  each  and  called  for  bids.  It 
was  Saturday  afternoon  and  all  the  planters  were  in  town. 
The  bidding  was  lively  and  the  slaves  brought  good  prices. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  heartrending  sadness  in  the  faces 
of  the  bondmen.  They  were  laughing  and  chatting  away 
with  their  fellows.  In  fact,  they  appeared  to  be  paying 
a  great  deal  of  attention  to  the  bids,  as  though  measur- 
ing their  own  value  by  the  amount  offered  for  them. 

On  the  outer  edge  of  the  crowd  was  a  fringe  of  negroes 
from  the  plantations  nearby,  who  were  evidently  as 
much  interested  in  the  proceedings  as  their  masters.  It 
was  a  part  of  the  life  to  which  they  were  born. 

Andrews'  Caesar,  the  one  who  was  not  to  be  sold,  was 
the  center  of  a  knot  of  negroes  away  from  the  others. 
He  was  the  one  who  was  to  accompany  his  new  master 
down  the  river  to  Memphis.  By  him  stood  a  mulatto 
girl  from  the  Wilson  plantation,  who  was  to  see  the  last 
of  her  big  lover.  Tears  were  running  down  her  cheeks, 

[41] 


but  she  did  not  murmur  against  the  system.  It  was  a 
part  of  the  life,  and  though  her  heart  was  breaking  with 
the  grief  of  separation  she  saw  no  wrong  in  it.  Caesar 
comforted  her  as  best  he  could,  but  seemed  to  have  more 
interest  in  the  journey  he  was  to  take  and  the  things 
he  would  see  in  the  strange  country  to  which  he  was 
going.  He  had  no  love  for  his  late  master,  and  outside 
this  yellow  girl,  was  evidently  totally  indifferent  to  the 
proceedings. 

"Marse  Wilson  am  gwine  to  try  to  buy  you-all,"  said 
the  mulatto  girl. 

"Am  he?"  answered  Caesar.  "I  don't  s'pose  dis  hyah 
man '11  sell  me  to  him.  Dey  ain't  nobody  can  pay  enough 
foh  me  hyah." 

There  was  a  certain  amount  of  pride  expressed  in  this. 
The  fact  that  he  was  worth  so  much  that  no  one  in  that 
neighborhood  could  afford  to  keep  him  appealed  to  him 
and  marked  him  for  great  respect  among  the  other  col- 
ored people. 

Wilson  offered  Caesar's  new  master  as  high  as  $2,000 
for  him,  but  even  this  amount,  large  for  that  community, 
was  refused,  and  the  big  negro  went  down  the  river  on  a 
boat  that  came  along  that  evening. 

Bascom  was  very  much  interested  in  the  whole  proceed- 
ing. He  was  all  around,  close  up  to  the  auction  block 
during  the  sale,  and  mixed  in  with  the  crowd.  He  heard 
the  comments  on  the  values  of  the  slaves,  while  to  him 
the  auctioneer  who  held  the  center  of  the  platform  and 
discoursed  on  the  merits  of  the  chattels,  was  invested  with 
a  glory  in  the  boy's  mind  which  would  have  increased 
an  already  enormous  estimate  of  his  own  importance. 

Bob  Crockett  had  spied  him  once  during  the  sale,  and  . 
had  put  his  hand  playfully  on  the  lad's  head: 

"Which  nigger  air  you-all  goin'  to  buy,  sonny?" 

' '  I  ain  't  agoin '  to  buy  none  of  'em, ' '  he  answered.  ' '  My 
grandmother  says  'tain't  right  to  sell  'em." 

"Ho!  Ho!  Grandmother  says  'tain't  right,  does  she? 
What  objection  does  she  have  to  sellin'  'em?" 

"She  says,"  answered  Bascom,   scenting  criticism  of 

[42] 


his  beloved  Grandmother,  "she  says  they  ought  to  be 
kept  together  and  taken  cayah  of,  'cause  God  says  so." 

Bob  laughed,  and  stroked  the  youngster's  head. 

"Youah  grandmother,  sonny,  is  a  good  woman,  and  she 
can  get  mo'  immediate  and  direct  info'mation  f'm  the 
Almighty  than  mos'  o'  the  folks.  Probably  'cause  she 
spends  mo'  time  in  conve'sation  with  Him  than  the  rest 
of  us.  But  I  reckon  as  long  as  we  have  slavery, — and  I 
reckon  that'll  be  always, — they'll  have  to  be  sales  of  'em. 
If  folks  only  had  a  few  niggers  they  mought  keep  'em 
as  long  as  they'd  live,  jes'  like  you'd  keep  an  ol'  hawse 
that'd  been  true  and  faithful.  But  when  yuh  got  a  lot 
of  'em  and  times  change  with  yuh,  somebody'  else's  got 
to  take  'em  or  they  would  starve.  An'  they'll  have  to  be 
sold  or  freed,  and  if  you  don '  sell  'em  and  all  youah  money 
is  in  the  niggers  you  will  starve,  too,  and  if  you  free  'em 
they-all  '11  hang  roun'  heah  so  impohtant  that  they  have 
a  bad  influence  on  the  otheh  niggers.  So,  'bout  the  only 
way  to  get  shet  of  'em  and  not  disturb  things  too  much, 
sonny,  is  to  sell  'em,  youah  esteemed  and  beloved  grand- 
mother to  the  contrary  notwithstanding." 

Bascom  went  home  somewhat  mixed  in  his  mental  pro- 
cess. Bob  Crockett  was  his  hero,  while  his  grandmother 
was  his  judge.  So  he  stated  the  result  of  his  conversa- 
tion to  the  old  lady  for  her  rebuttal. 

"Bob  Crockett  looks  at  these  things,  honey,  from  the 
standpoint  of  money,  and  money  ain't  all  they  is  in  this 
world.  To  my  min'  it  is  the  least." 

"Why,  Grandmother,  wouldn't  you-all  like  to  have  a 
lot  of  money?"  said  Bascom  in  wonderment,  because  the 
possession  of  wealth  to  him  in  those  days  was  consonant 
with  greatness  and  the  accomplishment  of  big  things. 

"No,  honey,  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  a  lot  of  money  if 
the  makin'  or  the  takin'  of  it  was  to  cause  somebody  a 
lot  of  sufferin'.  I'd  rather  be  poor  and  makin'  folks 
happy  than  rich  and  makin'  people  miserable.  Don'  you 
ever  let  'em  make  you-all  believe,  honey,  that  money  '11 
buy  you  happiness,  except  as  you-all  spend  it  to  make 
happiness.  If  you-all  spend  money  foh  the  happiness  of 

[43] 


otheh  people  God '11  give  you  mo',  and  you'll  be  rich  no 
matter  how  much  you  got.  But  if  you  don'  spend  money 
foh  otheh  people's  happiness,  the  money  you  get,  no  mat- 
ter how  much,  won't  be  God's  money,  and  you'll  be  a 
pauper  in  happiness  youse'f,  even  if  you  measure  youah 
wealth  by  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollahs." 

This  philosophy  of  the  good  old  lady  kept  soaking  into 
the  moral  fiber  of  Bascom  through  the  years  and  years 
that  followed,  and  was  by  him  proved  to  be  absolutely 
correct. 


[44] 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Lincoln  was  elected !  News  traveled  by  slow  post  usu- 
ally to  the  back  towns  of  Arkansas,  but  this  was  consid- 
ered bad  news,  and  it  certainly  followed  the  old  adage 
and  beat  all  records  for  swiftness.  The  wiser  ones  knew 
what  this  meant  on  the  great  chess  board  of  national  life, 
and  immediate  preparations  were  made  to  sacrifice  the 
pawns,  rooks  and  knights  to  checkmate  the  will  of  the 
majority.  The  Saturday  following  the  receipt  of  the  news 
beheld  an  unusual  sight  in  the  streets  of  Mount  Adams. 

"So  they've  called  our  hands,  have  they?"  said  Wilson, 
the  planter  whose  slaves  ran  up  into  the  hundreds.  ' '  Well, 
they'll  find  there's  no  bob-tail  flush  in  the  South.  What 
do  they  know  about  fightin',  these  namby-pamby,  greasy 
mechanics  up  Nawth !  They've  nevah  even  fiahed  a  squir- 
rel gun  and  the  smell  o'  powdah  would  be  so  strange  to 
'em  they'd  mistake  it  foh  some  new-f angeled  pahfume. 
By  the  time  these  damned  Yankees  get  'roun'  to  run  the 
gove'ment  they-all  '11  fin'  they  ain't  no  gove'ment  foh 
'em  to  run.  We-all  air  goin'  to  have  wah,  an'  we  might 
as  well  get  ready  for  it." 

This  seemed  to  voice  the  general  sentiment  and  a  mili- 
tary company  was  immediately  organized.  The  fighting 
spirit  was  aroused  and  nearly  everybody  in  the  commu- 
nity, old  and  young,  was  ready  to  offer  his  services.  A 
motley  array  of  arms  was  collected,  running  from  the  old 
flint-lock  of  Davy  Crockett  down  to  the  squirrel  rifle  and 
double-barrelled  shot  gun,  duelling  pistols  and  ancient 
pattern  pepper-box  revolvers. 

The  young  lads  caught  the  spirit  and  the  First  Arkan- 
sas Cadet  Corps  resulted,  of  which  young  Bascom  was  a 
member,  largely  self-constituted  as  such,  but  in  his  own 
mind  one  of  the  most  important  among  them.  McFarren 
Price,  now  a  merchant  of  Stuttgart,  Arkansas,  was  made 

[45] 


captain,  almost  by  general  consent.  Bascom  voted  for 
himself  for  every  other  position  down  to  and  including 
corporal.  In  fact,  when  the  tellers  were  counting  ballots 
on  each  announcement  of  the  result,  way  down  at  the  tail 
of  the  list  they  would  invariably  announce : 

"And  one  for  Bascom  B.  Clarke!" 

And  this  was  not  an  evidence  of  conceit,  but  of  boyish 
enthusiasm.  Had  it  been  conceit,  after  the  election  was 
over  the  lad  would  have  refused  to  continue  as  a  com- 
mon private,  feeling  that  his  valuable  services  were  not 
properly  appreciated.  His  brother  Will,  older  and  more 
mature,  did  not  aspire  to  official  recognition,  but  was  con- 
tent to  subordinate  himself  if  it  only  gave  him  a  chance 
to  fight.  The  younger  boys  were  let  in  by  sufferance,  al- 
though they  were  not  permitted  to  use  the  fire-arms. 

"They  won't  do  no  hahm,"  said  Bob  Crockett,  "an' 
you  mought  as  well  let  'em  in  and  they-all  '11  be  whah 
we  can  look  after  'em." 

It  was  a  great  time  for  the  lad  and  his  associates.  The 
cause  for  which  they  were  enlisted  did  not  matter  to  them. 
But  the  wooden  guns,  the  white  duck  trousers  with  red 
stripes,  good-naturedly  made  by  the  mothers  and  sisters 
of  the  boys,  and  the  opportunity  to  drill  and  be  taught 
the  manual  of  arms,  made  them,  in  their  minds,  a  part  of 
the  great  army  of  conquest  which  was  to  subdue  the 
"Nawth"  and  establish  a  new  country.  Tom  Hawkins 
was  drill  master  and,  though  somewhat  rusty  in  his 
knowledge  of  tactics  brought  down  from  old  militia  days, 
managed  to  get  the  lines  in  some  kind  of  shape,  instruct 
the  amateur  soldiers  in  simple  evolutions  and  show  them 
how  to  "carry,"  "present"  and  "port"  arms. 

It  was,  to  be  sure,  an  awkward  squad,  but  it  was  earnest 
and  tractable.  The  little  lads  learned  quickly,  more  so 
than  their  elders,  because  they  were  constantly  at  it  all 
day  long.  It  was  the  only  game  they  played  and  they 
played  it  hard.  The  "nigger  uprising"  which  the  leaders 
of  the  South  had  predicted  was,  in  the  judgment  of  these 
boys,  effectually  forestalled  by  their  prompt  and  efficient 

[46] 


answer  to  the  call  of  the  South.  They  figuratively  and 
in  pantomime  killed  the  entire  negro  race,  always  pre- 
serving, however,  the  colored  servants  in  their  own  fami- 
lies. They  would  march  upon  the  enemy  in  full  battle 
array,  halt,  perfect  the  formation  of  the  line,  "aim," 
"fire"  and  then  "charge."  The  "niggers"  and  "Yan- 
kees" could  be  seen  in  their  vivid  imaginations,  flying  in 
terror  before  them.  After  the  imaginary  prisoners  of 
war  had  been  summarily  put  to  death  the  sentries  would 
be  duly  posted  and  the  army  would  go  into  camp  to  talk 
over  the  day's  victories  and  plan  for  the  morrow's  coup. 

Events  followed  swiftly,  the  opening  shot  of  the  great 
war  had  been  fired  at  Fort  Sumter,  and  soon  Arkansas 
voted  to  secede  from  the  Union.  The  state  called  for  vol- 
unteers. The  whites  for  miles  around  gathered  at  Mount 
Adams,  and  excitement  ran  high.  The  negroes  nearly 
all  stayed  on  the  plantations,  too  frightened  to  move.  They 
had  heard  enough  of  the  discussion  to  know  that  their 
race  was  in  some  way  involved  in  the  turmoil,  and  they 
were  being  held  responsible  for  the  impending  conflict. 
No  matter  if  they  had  done  nothing  themselves  to  justify 
the  attitude  of  their  masters  toward  them  individually, 
they  were  a  part  of  the  great  mass  of  slaves,  and  gradu- 
ally it  sifted  through  their  dense  understanding  that  pos- 
sibly they  might  be  free  if  the  Yankees  won  out. 

So  the  little  town  of  Mount  Adams  seethed  and  boiled 
with  hatred  towards  the  North  and  loyalty  to  the  South 
and  her  institutions.  A  down  river  packet  had  brought 
the  news  of  the  seccession  and  the  call.  In  a  short  time 
an  old  cannon,  loaned  to  the  village  some  time  before  for 
the  Fourth  of  July  celebrations,  began  pounding  as  fast 
as  it  could  be  swabbed,  loaded  and  fired.  Its  echoes  an- 
swered all  up  and  down  the  valley.  The  fife  and  drums 
filled  the  air  with  martial  music.  With  Americans  noth- 
ing seems  to  so  stir  the  fighting  blood  as  the  shrill  fife 
and  its  accompanying  drums.  The  bugle  is  the  aristoc- 
racy of  war  time  musical  instruments,  the  fife  is  the  com- 
mon people.  So  the  martial  strains  of  the  fife  and  drums, 

[47] 


with  cannon-shot  punctuation,  set  the  nerves  of  the  village 
folk  tingling  and  keyed  them  to  the  pitch  of  unrestrained 
excitement.  There  was  a  call  for  Bob  Crockett  and  he 
mounted  a  box. 

"Fellow  citizens,"  lie  began,  "they  ain't  much  need 
of  any  speech  to  you-all.  Old  Arkansaw  has  called  to  us 
in  the  name  o'  the  South.  Nevah  yet  in  the  history  of 
this  country  has  a  call  been  made  for  fightehs  that  that 
call  has  not  been  answered  by  tens  of  thousands  of  the 
best  men  in  the  land.  I  believe  and  you-all  believe  that 
we're  right.  They  have  elected  a  Yankee  foh  the  head  o' 
this  nation  who  is  in  favoh  of  freein'  the  slaves  and  settin' 
'em  against  their  masters.  Air  we  goin'  to  stan'  it?  No! 
Every  true  Southern  min '  says  '  No ! '  If  I  know  the  spirit 
o'  the  people  of  the  South,  and  I  think  I  do,  in  thirty 
days  the  Nawth  will  fin'  such  an  army  of  determined, 
brave  men  confrontin'  her  that  she  will  be  wise  enough 
not  to  lay  han's  on.  01'  Arkansaw  asks  my  services  foh 
the  defense  of  her  good  name  and  her  people  and  her  right 
to  make  such  laws  as  will  protect  ouah  property.  I  be- 
long to  Arkansaw!  If  the  ol'  state  wants  my  services 
they  air  at  her  command.  If  she  wants  some  one  to  fight 
foh  her,  I  will  answer  'Present!'  If  she  wants  some  one 
to  die  foh  her,  I  will  say,  'Take  Bob  Crockett;  I'm  ready!' 
Whetheh  to  live  or  die!  "Whetheh  for  peace  or  wah! 
Whatevah  the  future  has  foh  me,  I'm  goin*  to  put  my 
name  down  on  this  roll  in  answer  to  the  call  o '  my  state. ' ' 

Bob  grew  more  and  more  earnest,  ending  with  a  final 
appeal  to  others  to  join  him  in  going  to  the  front,  and 
they  crowded  forward  by  the  dozens  when  he  had  ended. 
When  the  next  packet  went  down  the  river  the  recruits 
were  escorted  to  the  landing  by  the  fife  and  drum  corps 
and  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  village  and  the  plantations 
round  about,  while  the  old  cannon  was  again  called  into 
requisition  to  add  its  ponderous  voice  to  the  farewell. 
Some  of  the  recruits  were  from  the  company  of  cadets, 
and  they  bore  themselves  with  all  the  military  dignity 
with  which  they  had  been  so  recently  invested. 

[48] 


BOB   GRQCKETTl 


WHITE,    RIVERA 


As  they  went  on  board  they  sang  with  a  zest  and  vim: 

We  are  a  band  of  brothers, 

And  natives  of  the  soil, 
Fighting  for  the  property 

We've  gained  by  honest  toil, 
And  when  our  rights  were  threatened 

The  cry  rose  near  and  far 
To  hoist  on  high  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 

Which  bears  a  single  star. 

They  carried  a  "bonnie  blue  flag"  presented  to  them 
by  the  ladies  of  the  village  through  Miss  Petonia  B.  Crock- 
ett, sister  of  Bob.  Of  course  Bob  Crockett  was  unani- 
mously chosen  as  the  head  of  the  local  company  and  later 
rose  to  the  command  of  a  regiment  in  the  Confederate 
army. 

All  that  was  left  of  the  company  of  cadets  formed  the 
official  escort,  heading  the  line  and  leading  the  way  to 
the  landing.  The  smaller  boys,  in  full  uniform,  with  a 
"bonnie  blue  flag"  made  out  of  cambric  proudly  flung  to 
the  breeze,  were  permitted  a  conspicuous  place  in  the  pro- 
cession. And  close  up  to  the  colors,  marching  with  dig- 
nified and  stately  tread,  keeping  step  to  the  swing  of  the 
martial  music,  was  Bascom  B.  Clarke,  southern  patriot. 

It  had  been  a  keen  disappointment  to  him  that  he  was 
not  privileged  to  go  and  participate  in  the  bloody  conflict. 
He  saw  a  mother  break  down  and  cry  bitterly  as  her  son 
waved  her  a  last  adieu  from  the  deck  of  the  steamer,  and 
marveled  that  there  could  be  any  grief  accompanying  such 
a  glorious  separation.  Men  turned  away  in  sadness  to 
hide  the  choke  in  their  throats  and  the  tears  in  their  eyes. 
Some  of  them  realized  the  serious  side  of  the  perilous 
policy  upon  which  the  South  had  ventured. 

But  neither  the  grief  of  separation  nor  serious  contem- 
plation of  portended  tragedy  touched  the  youthful  con- 
tingent in  the  escort.  They  could  see  only  the  marching 
columns  and  uniformed  men,  the  bayonets  catching  the 
gleam  of  the  smiling  sun,  their  colors  waving  proudly  in 
the  breeze  and  the  campfires'  glow  at  night  when  the  sol- 
4  [49] 


diers  were  at  rest.  They  could  hear  only  the  strains  of 
the  martial  music  as  it  gave  them  the  time,  and  the  huzzas 
of  victory  as  the  enemy  gave  way  before  the  conquering 
host.  They  saw  no  weary  men,  with  laggard  step  and  de- 
jected air,  sick  at  heart  for  their  own  homes  and  firesides, 
nor  did  they  hear  the  moans  and  groans  of  the  wounded 
and  dying.  There  did  not  come  to  them  the  bitterness  of 
defeat  or  the  hardships  and  privations  the  soldiers  in  the 
field  on  either  side  must  experience.  One  hundred  days 
would  soon  pass,  the  war  would  be  over,  and  these  men 
would  be  back  in  Mount  Adams,  a  part  of  a  conquering 
host !  Bascom  began  to  count  the  days,  but  he  never  saw 
them  come  back,  and  some  of  them  never  came  back,  but 
sleep  in  shallow  graves  on  the  battlefields  of  a  great  fra- 
tricidal war. 

Bascom  had  gravely  approached  Bob  Crockett  the  day 
before  the  departure  of  the  company,  and  had  announced 
that  he  wanted  to  go,  too. 

' '  Why,  sonny,  you-all  cain  't  go.    You  ain  't  old  enough. ' ' 

"I  kin  shoot,  suh.  You-all  know  I  kin  shoot,  foh  you 
taught  me  how." 

"Yes,  boy,  you-all  can  shoot,  but  it's  goin'  to  take  some- 
thin'  more'n  shootin'.  It  looks  like  a  campmeetin'  and 
Glory  Hallelujah  to  you,  sonny,  but  I'm  afeered  we've 
got  a  man's  work  cut  out  foh  us.  You  go  home  and  ask 
youah  grandmother  to  pray  foh  us,  foh  I  reckon  we-all  '11 
need  all  her  prayehs  af o '  we  get  through  with  this  scrim- 
mage. I'm  proud,  sonny,  that  you-all  want  to  go  an'  fight 
foh  ol'  Arkansaw,  an'  you  a  Vuhginyan,  but  you  ain't 
needed  now  at  the  front  and  they 'all  '11  need  you  at 
home." 

He  patted  the  boy  on  the  shoulder  affectionately  and 
then  was  called  away.  The  years  rolled  around  many  times 
before  Bascom  again  saw  Bob  Crockett.  But  Bob  Crock- 
ett, despite  his  roughness  and  frailties,  was  always  a  part 
of  the  after  life  of  the  boy.  Brave,  strong,  courageous, 
yet  with  a  gentleness  and  consideration  that  brought  him 
close  to  the  weak  and  the  troubled,  it  is  little  wonder  that 
his  soldiers  idolized  him,  neither  is  it  to  be  wondered  that 

[50] 


he  won  promotion  after  promotion  for  gallantry  and 
added  luster  to  the  laurels  of  Arkansas  in  the  war. 

Very  soon  the  money  of  the  Confederacy  began  to  make 
its  appearance,  and  the  coin  and  bills  of  the  government 
of  the  United  States  disappeared.  Indeed,  it  was  consid- 
ered treasonable  to  use  the  latter.  When  the  first  bills  of 
the  new  government  of  the  Confedrate  States  of  America 
arrived  they  were  grabbed  with  anxious  greediness  by 
everybody,  and  with  a  sense  of  gratified  pride  the  people 
promptly  accepted  them  as  the  circulating  medium.  Tak- 
ing advantage  of  this  patriotic  demonstration  in  favor  of 
their  new  government,  so  manifest  by  the  people,  and  ac- 
ceding to  the  apparent  wishes  of  the  populace,  the  men  who 
owned  the  Jewish  Supply  Store  of  Eodjesky  &  Company, 
facilitated  the  exchange  from  United  States  to  Confeder- 
ate States  cash.  They  promptly  retired  the  former;  and 
to  further  attest  their  patriotism,  did  not  again  offer  a 
single  piece  of  it.  Their  dealings  with  the  people,  in  the 
purchase  of  cotton  and  other  produce,  gave  them  oppor- 
tunity to  dispose  of  large  amounts  of  the  new  currency. 

Rodjesky  &  Company  located  themselves  at  the  landing 
before  the  Clarkes  arrived  and  the  boom  toward  a  big 
city  began.  The  " Supply  House,"  as  it  was  called,  was 
designed  to  carry  everything  needed  by  the  people,  dry 
goods,  groceries,  hardware,  drugs  and  medicines,  agricul- 
tural machinery,  and  such  other  goods  and  materials  as 
might  be  called  for.  The  trade  of  the  establishment  ran 
back  from  the  river  for  miles,  reaching  all  the  plantations. 
Their  accounts  with  the  planters  were  very  heavy,  as  prac- 
tically all  the  cotton  from  that  region  passed  through  their 
hands  to  market.  Adolph  Eodjesky,  the  head  of  the  es- 
tablishment, had  become  impressed  with  the  sterling  in- 
tegrity and  worth  of  Colonel  Clarke.  "When  the  latter 's 
surveying  was  done  he  was  employed  in  the  supply  house, 
and  the  details  of  the  business  were  largely  in  his  hands. 

For  a  time  after  the  opening  of  the  war  things  ran 
along  about  as  usual  in  the  village.  News  from  the  front 
came  through  very  slowly  and  was  so  colored  in  the  inter- 
ests of  the  Confederacy  as  to  give  the  impression  of  an 

[51] 


unbroken  line  of  Southern  successes.  But  the  hundred 
days  went  by  and  the  war  was  not  at  end.  It  was  practi- 
cally impossible  to  get  any  news  of  the  men  who  had  de- 
parted in  such  a  blaze  of  enthuiasm.  Their  relatives  be- 
gan to  worry  as  reports  of  battles  found  their  way  to  the 
hamlet,  and  laughter  was  a  rare  sound,  except  among  the 
children. 

Then  came  the  blockading  of  the  ports  and  even  the 
Rodjesky  Company  was  unable  to  get  supplies  from  below. 
First  one  article  could  not  be  furnished,  and  then  another, 
until  the  people  began  to  taste  the  privations  of  war. 
Tea,  coffee,  pepper,  drugs  and  medicines,  and  finally  even 
salt  was  unobtainable.  The  Confederate  currency,  brought 
in  and  accepted  with  such  pride,  began  to  depreciate  in 
value  until  prices  under  it  were  nearly  prohibitive. 

A  pound  of  pepper  cost  $300,  a  pair  of  boots  was  $80 
and  of  shoes  $35,  while  a  turkey  would  bring  $20  and  a 
sheep  $50.  A  half  bushel  of  salt,  gospel  measure  lacking, 
cost  $16  in  United  States  money  or  its  equivalent  in  cot- 
ton at  Helena,  from  which  point  most  of  the  stores  for  the 
village  came.  For  coffee  various  substitues  were  used, 
parched  okra  seeds  or  rye  and  even  sweet  potatoes  cooked 
to  a  crisp ;  for  tea,  sassafras  root  was  usually  the  substi- 
tute, and  became  such  a  favorite  that  it  can  be  found  on 
many  pretentious  Southern  tables  to  this  time.  Quinine 
was  a  necessity  in  view  of  the  malaria  which  haunted  the 
vicinity  of  the  river.  The  inability  to  procure  this  drug 
caused  great  physical  distress.  Salt  was  obtained  by  dig- 
ging up  the  dirt  floors  of  the  smoke  houses,  where  for 
years  the  well-salted  hams  had  dripped  while  smoking. 
The  dirt  was  placed  in  water  and  the  salt  went  into  solu- 
tion. The  water  was  then  drained  off  and  evaporated, 
leaving  the  salt  as  a  result.  It  was  a  tedious  process  but 
the  wastefulness  of  former  years  in  this  case  proved  a 
veritable  blessing. 

The  dreaded  "Yanks"  had  possession  of  the  Missis- 
sippi River  along  the  Arkansas  border.  Memphis,  the 
pride  of  the  middle  Southern  states,  came  into  the  hands 
of  the  Union,  much  to  the  consternation  of  her  Arkansas 

[52] 


neighbors,  and  the  now  hated  stars  and  stripes  floated  de- 
fiantly from  the  court  house.  Gradually  the  Father  of 
Waters  yielded  to  the  Union  forces  and  its  tributaries 
and  sub-tributaries  were  opened  to  the  boats  bearing  Old 
Glory.  And  yet  so  saturated  were  the  people  with  the 
idea  that  the  Southern  hosts  were  unconquerable  that  they 
did  not  realize  the  full  meaning  and  measure  of  the  con- 
quests thus  far  obtained  until  one  day  the  town  of  Mount 
Adams  became  panic  stricken  at  the  cry: 

"The  Yanks  are  coming!  The  Yanks  are  coming!" 
Out  onto  the  bluff  ran  the  entire  population,  in  terrified 
awe.  Sure  enough,  the  long  line  of  gunboats  and  trans- 
ports were  slowly  moving  up  the  river  like  a  huge  serpent. 
Unobserved,  Colonel  Wheat's  cavalry  had  crept  to  an  ad- 
joining bluff  which  formed  a  natural  fortification  and 
opened  fire  with  four  or  five  hundred  double-barrelled 
shot-guns,  each  loaded  with  three  buckshot  and  a  minnie 
ball.  Their  fire  was  directed  upon  a  transport  loaded 
almost  to  the  guards  with  Union  soldiers,  and  the  havoc 
was  terrible.  Many  were  killed  and  wounded. 

The  non-combatants,  among  whom  was  the  ten-year-old 
soldier,  Bascom  B.  Clarke,  were  stunned  and  dazed  at  the 
tragedy.  Before  they  could  recover  from  their  surprise 
the  leading  gunboat  sounded  its  whistle  signalling  the 
others  to  attack,  turned  and  fired  a  broadside  of  shot  and 
shell,  while  from  far  down  the  river  came  the  raking  fire 
of  another.  But  the  cavalry  departed  as  silently  as  they 
came.  On  account  of  the  high  banks  the  shells  thrown 
did  not  reach  the  main  part  of  the  village,  but  exploded  a 
mile  beyond.  One  grape-shot  struck  the  house  of  Dr. 
Bagby,  which  subsequently  became  the  home  of  Bob 
Crockett.  When  the  first  gunboat  rounded  to,  and  began 
to  shoot,  Bascom  started  for  home,  and  the  details  of  that 
trip  from  the  bluff  to  his  mother  are  not  very  accurate  in 
his  mind.  He  only  knew  that  he  heard  the  thunder  of 
the  first  gun,  and  then  found  he  had  covered  the  entire 
distance  to  shelter  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time. 
The  celerity  with  which  he  moved  brought  to  his  mind 

[53] 


in  later  days  that  old  story  of  the  negro  witness  who  was 
testifying  in  a  shooting  case: 

"How  long  after  the  first  shot  was  the  second  one 
fired?"  asked  the  examining  lawyer. 

"About  three  seconds,  sah." 

' '  Where  were  you  when  the  first  shot  was  fired  ? ' ' 

"'Bout  ten  feet  from  de  man  what  was  shootin'." 

"Where  were  you  when  the  second  shot  was  fired?" 

' '  'Bout  ten  squares  down  street,  sah. ' ' 

The  children  were  huddled  into  the  houses  with  the 
women,  and  doors  were  locked  and  barred,  for  all  ex- 
pected an  avenging  host  to  land  and  destroy  everything 
in  sight.  Fear  blanched  the  faces  of  the  older  people,  not 
for  themselves,  but  for  the  helpless  ones  among  them,  for 
had  they  not  been  repeatedly  told  that  Yankee  presence 
meant  tyranny,  oppression  and  a  negro  uprising?  But 
the  troops  were  not  landed.  No  answer  coming  from  the 
bluff  to  the  fire  of  the  gunboats,  they  proceeded  cautiously 
up  the  river. 

So  far  as  being  prepared  for  an  uprising,  the  colored 
people  were  as  frightened  as  the  whites,  for  the  terror 
of  their  masters  and  mistresses  and  the  constant  remind- 
ers uttered  in  their  presence  that  they  were  the  cause  of 
the  entire  trouble,  kept  them  constantly  in  a  state  of  fear. 
In  their  centuries  of  absolute  dependence  on  these  people 
the  negroes  had  an  inherited  homage  to  their  owners,  and 
a  fear  of  their  displeasure.  Even  their  hope  of  freedom, 
if,  indeed,  such  a  hope  did  possess  their  minds,  and  un- 
spoken prayers  for  the  success  of  the  boys  in  blue,  could 
not  overcome  in  a  day  this  hereditary  homage  and  fear. 
They  kept  rather  close  to  their  quarters  and  followed  the 
routine  of  work  assigned  to  them  just  as  they  had  done 
before  the  war  began.  So  they  helped  to  feed  and  sup- 
port the  army  and  the  people  who  were  insisting  on  their 
remaining  in  slavery. 


[64] 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  chaotic  condition  of  affairs  was  apparent  even  to 
the  children  who  could  not  understand.  Wandering  bands 
of  bushwhackers  menacing  alike  those  loyal  to  the  South 
and  the  Northern  invaders  kept  the  people  in  a  constant 
state  of  anxiety.  The  second  bombardment  of  the  village 
was  due  to  one  of  these  marauding  bands.  They  fired 
from  the  same  bluff  on  some  gunboats  convoying  trans- 
ports. Not  only  did  the  gunboats  shell  the  town,  but  a 
force  was  landed  and  cleaned  out  every  store,  including 
that  of  Colonel  James  Thomas  Upshire  Hawkins,  the  drill 
master  of  Mount  Adams'  first  contribution  to  the  Confed- 
eracy. They  took  his  last  cheese,  carried  off  his  pet  squir- 
rels, and  emptied  out  his  liquor,  an  outrage  no  true  son  of 
Arkansas  could  see  any  possible  excuse  for. 

"Damn  'em !  If  they  didn't  want  to  drink  it  why  didn't 
they  leave  it  for  them  that  does?"  remarked  one  old  fel- 
low who  saw  the  material  for  his  daily  drams  thus  rudely 
wasted. 

The  bushwhackers,  having  performed  their  usual  act  of 
tantalization,  had  rapidly  moved  away  and  left  the  inno- 
cent people  of  the  town  to  suffer  for  their  acts.  But  that 
was  true  all  through  the  war.  The  ones  who  suffered  the 
most  and  the  keenest,  and  the  ones  who  had  the  most  pri- 
vations, were  not  those  who  started  or  conducted  the  con- 
flict, but  those  who,  not  participating,  had  to  bear  the 
brunt  of  its  results.  The  Southern  women,  who  patiently 
met  the  problems  of  daily  existence,  uninspired  by  the 
cheers  of  fellows  in  battle,  unsupported  by  the  feeling 
that  they  were  part  of  a  struggle  in  a  great  cause ;  who, 
month  in  and  month  out,  were  compelled  to  answer  the 
question  of  their  children,  "Why  doesn't  papa  come 
home?"  and  who  met  the  rigors  of  absolute  poverty  un- 
complainingly and  with  rare  fortitude;  these  women  de- 

[55] 


serve  a  monument,  a  pure  white  shaft,  rising  somewhere 
toward  the  eternal  heavens. 

On  the  second  visit  of  the  Yankees  little  Bascom,  who 
had  discovered  that  he  was  not  killed  by  the  presence  of 
the  Yankees  the  first  time,  was  an  interested,  though 
somewhat  removed  spectator.  The  first  time  he  had  flown 
to  his  mother  and  grandmother  for  protection,  and  they, 
though  in  great  fear  themselves,  had  soothed  and  quieted 
him  and  kept  him  close  until  the  danger  had  passed. 

Soon  afterwards  the  grandmother  closed  her  eyes  and 
joined  Grandfather  on  the  other  side  of  the  dark  river. 
The  end  came  in  peaceful  belief  that  all  was  well  with 
her,  and  with  a  smile  and  a  blessing  she  bade  farewell  to 
the  little  family  group  around  her  bedside.  Death  here 
was  no  conqueror:  he  was  the  herald  of  brightness  and 
glory. 

''Don't  cry,  honey,"  she  said  to  Bascom.  "I'm  only 
goin'  over  the  river  to  meet  Grandfather.  I'll  wait  theah 
foh  you-all  when  you  come.  Praise  God  from  whom  all 
blessings  flow!  I'm  goin'  home!" 

With  sadness,  yet  with  absolute  faith  the  body  of  the 
old  lady  was  placed  in  a  grave  on  the  hillside  beside 
Grandfather. 

The  times  grew  desperately  hard.  More  and  more  diffi- 
cult did  it  become  to  get  the  necessaries  of  life.  The 
Yankee  blockade  was  so  efficient  that  it  was  almost  impos- 
sible to  obtain  anything  not  raised  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
borhood, and  with  the  purchasing  power  of  the  currency 
continually  going  down  under  the  advance  of  the  Federal 
forces,  but  little  could  be  bought.  Christmas  of  1862 
found  the  Clarkes  in  poor  condition  to  celebrate,  and  the 
sacrifices  made  by  the  father  and  mother  in  an  endeavor 
to  give  some  character  to  the  occasion  were  little  under- 
stood by  the  other  members  of  the  family.  The  Colonel 
had  sold  a  little  cotton  he  had  taken  on  a  debt.  It  was 
bought  by  Colonel  Redman,  a  wealthy  planter  whose  plan- 
tation was  across  the  river  from  Mount  Adams.  Besides 
what  he  raised  he  had  been  buying  from  his  neighbors, 

[56] 

' 


and  had  it  safely  hidden  in  the  timber  and  canebrakes  of 
the  bottoms. 

Colonel  Clarke,  after  selling  the  cotton,  took  a  pillow 
case  and  brought  it  home  half  filled  with  flour,  purchased 
with  the  cotton  money.  After  the  children  were  in  bed 
Christmas  Eve,  Mrs.  Clarke  had  made  some  ginger  cake 
figures,  with  scanty  sweetening,  for  Christmas  gifts. 
Then,  for  the  feast  day  dinner,  hot  biscuit  and  butter, 
fresh  fried  pork  and  parched  corn  coffee  constituted  the 
the  menu.  .  God  had  not  forsaken  the  Clarke  family  on 
this  Christmas  day,  and  the  Colonel's  prayer  of  thanks- 
giving as  they  all  sat  down  to  the  meal  was  echoed  in  the 
hearts  of  all. 

It  was  soon  after  this  that  the  Colonel  undertook  a 
journey  to  Helena.  The  supply  of  quinine  at  the  Rod- 
jesky  store  had  given  out  and  in  that  malarial  district 
such  a  condition  was  little  less  than  a  calamity.  It  was 
therefore  absolutely  required  that  some  one  should  under- 
take the  hazardous  journey  to  Helena  for  the  drug.  Colo- 
nel Clarke  volunteered  to  go,  and  succeeded  in  getting 
through  the  lines  and  out  again  with  the  precious  medi- 
cine. Before  reaching  Mount  Adams,  however,  he  was 
taken  ill  as  a  result  of  his  exposure.  He  finally  arrived 
home,  and  was  given  the  best  care  and  treatment  possible, 
but  he  did  not  rally  and  was  soon  laid  in  the  cemetery. 

Consternation  seized  the  family,  for  they  had  never 
dreamed  of  a  condition  arising  by  which  they  would  be 
deprived  of  the  support  and  counsel  of  this  strong  man. 
Full  of  resource,  possessed  of  indomitable  energy,  never 
deterred  from  his  purpose  by  any  obstacle,  not  only  his 
own  family  but  the  entire  community  had  come  to  rely 
upon  him  in  times  of  stress.  The  stricken  mother,  who 
had  depended  more  and  more  upon  her  idolized  husband, 
was  weighed  down  by  a  grief  too  great  to  be  spoken. 
For  a  time  she  tried  to  keep  the  family  together  and 
minister  to  them,  but  weary  in  body  and  broken  in  spirit, 
the  task  was  too  great  for  her,  and  in  a  very  short  time 
she,  too,  found  the  narrow  habitation  prepared  for  all. 

It  seemed  the  climax  to  all  misfortune.  The  eldest 

[57] 


daughter,  Mary,  burdened  with  sorrow,  sought  to  find 
some  way  by  which  they  could  all  remain  together.  But 
it  seemed  impossible.  The  home,  once  full  of  happiness 
and  with  cheerfulness  and  laughter  predominating,  with 
splendid  characters  and  living  examples  of  piety,  integ- 
rity and  heart  goodness,  was  now  desolate.  The  homes  of 
practically  everybody  in  the  neighborhood  were  opened  to 
them,  one  offering  to  provide  for  this  one,  and  another 
for  that,  until  it  seemed  best  to  separate.  No  other  solu- 
tion to  the  problem  presented  itself,  and  with  anguish  of 
soul  the  girl  finally  gave  up  to  the  inevitable.  The  al- 
ready meager  larder  furnished  but  scanty  hope  for  sub- 
sistence, and  would  have  been  entirely  depleted  had  it  not 
been  for  the  generosity  and  thoughtfulness  of  the  neigh- 
bors. None  too  well  provided  for  themselves,  they  each 
contributed  a  little  until  there  was  enough  for  the  time. 

But  Mary  realized  this  could  not  go  on  for  long,  so  she 
gathered  the  little  brood  for  a  council.  With  aching  heart 
and  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks  the  sister  tenderly 
outlined  the  situation,  and  the  provision  made  for  each. 
The  smaller  children,  used  to  having  some  one  reason  and 
think  out  the  line  of  conduct  for  them,  wondered  why 
they  could  not  go  on  living  as  they  had  before,  but  did 
not  voice  objection.  The  older  ones  viewed  the  matter 
from  all  sides,  and  then  with  a  sigh  acknowledged  that  it 
was  the  only  thing  they  could  do.  And  the  family  was 
scattered,  never  to  be  together  again  as  a  family. 

Bascom  was  given  a  home  with  George  Ramsdale,  who 
had  four  beautiful  daughters  and  no  son.  Not  only  was 
he  made  welcome,  but  the  planter  wanted  to  adopt  him. 
The  plantation  was  remote  from  the  river  and  up  to  this 
time  had  not  been  molested  by  either  the  "Yanks"  or  the 
bushwhackers.  Here  he  was  well  provided  for,  and  every- 
thing done  to  make  him  feel  that  he  was  part  of  the  fam- 
ily. Mary  Margaret,  the  oldest  daughter,  was  attending 
Miss  Jeffreys'  school,  ten  miles  away. 

One  very  pleasant  duty  assigned  to  the  new  "son"  was 
the  accompanying  of  Mary  Margaret  to  her  school,  so  as 
to  "carry  her  hoss"  back.  The  girl  rode  the  swiftest  run- 

[58] 


ning  horse  in  the  neighborhood,  a  little  chestnut  sorrel, 
which  she  owned.  Bascom  was  astride  a  magnificent  big 
bay  which  possessed  both  speed  and  endurance.  The  chest- 
nut was  a  little  vixen,  but  in  the  hands  of  Miss  Mary  was 
like  a  kitten.  The  big  horse  was  staid  and  steady,  but 
when  aroused  could  make  the  ground  fly  under  his  feet. 

"I  understand,"  said  the  planter,  as  they  prepared  to 
start  for  school  one  day,  "I  understand  the  Yankee  sol- 
diers are  in  the  neighborhood,  and  I  want  you  to  try  and 
avoid  them  if  possible,  for  they  have  a  failing  of  'trading 
bosses'  whenever  they  have  an  opportunity  of  bettering 
their  stock." 

"I'd  like  to  see  'em  catch  me,"  said  Mary.  "I  could 
give  'em  a  two  mile  staht  on  a  fouah  mile  cou'se  and  beat 
'em  a  mile  an'  a  half." 

"An'  thah  ain't  nothin'  can  beat  Big  Ben,"  piped  in 
Bascom,  "  'ceptin'  Jennie,"  he  added  gallantly. 

"Jennie  and  Ben  may  both  be  fast,"  said  the  planter, 
"but  remember  neither  of  them  can  beat  a  minnie  ball 
when  it  decides  to  take  paht  in  the  race.  Don't  depend 
enti'ly  on  the  swiftness  of  the  bosses,  but  use  a  little 
judgment.  You  don't  want  to  lose  Jennie  and  I  don't 
want  to  lose  Ben,  so  be  careful. 

Both  promised  to  exercise  due  caution  and  started  out. 
They  reached  the  school  in  safety,  with  not  a  sign  of  the 
despised  Northerners.  On  the  way  back,  the  horses  going 
at  good  pace,  the  lad  dashed  into  a  camp  of  blue-coated 
soldiers.  For  the  first  time  he  heard  the  "click,  click" 
of  a  dozen  Springfield  rifles  and  the  stern  command: 

"Halt!" 

"Say,  Bub,  where  in  the  devil  are  you  going  at  that 
breakneck  speed?"  asked  the  sentinel. 

"I'm  goin'  home,  suh!" 

"Want  to  trade  horses?"  asked* a  second. 

"No,  suh,  they's  not  my  bosses." 

A  rapid  fire  of  questions  were  shot  at  him,  with  scarcely 
time  for  reply.  Just  then  the  commanding  officer  ap- 
proached and  the  guard  stood  at  attention. 

[59] 


"My  son,"  said  Colonel  Caldwell,  in  a  fatherly  way, 
"have  you  seen  any  of  our  good  Southern  boys  around 
here  lately?" 

"No,  suh." 

"Have  you  seen  any  Yankees,  either?"  he  continued. 

With  all  his  fear  and  apprehension  the  boy  could  not 
refrain  from  smiling  at  the  question.  Who  else,  in  those 
devastating  times,  with  starvation  staring  them  in  the 
face,  who  else  could  afford  bright,  spick  and  span  blue 
uniforms  and  polished  guns  with  real  bayonets  excepting 
the  Yankees? 

"Not  till  I  seen  you-all,  suh,"  he  responded.  "An' 
now,  please  suh,  can  I  go  on  home?  It's  agettin'  dahk, 
an'  I  don'  know  the  road  very  well." 

"But,  Colonel,"  broke  in  the  sentinel  who  had  first 
challenged,  "look  what  a  durn  good  chance  to  trade  horses 
and  my  old  plug  is  most  give  out." 

"Not  with  that  boy,"  said  the  Colonel.  "He  has  told 
us  the  truth  and  he  is  but  a  child." 

Just  pausing  long  enough  to  say,  "Thank  you,  suh!" 
the  boy  chirped  to  the  horses  and  in  an  instant  was  giving 
them  a  test  of  their  best  speed,  almost  expecting  to  hear 
the  shots  of  the  muskets  and  the  singing  of  bullets  as  they 
ran.  He  told  his  story  when  he  arrived  at  the  plantation, 
and  for  a  long  time  the  planter  sat  in  deep  thought.  Kind- 
ness, consideration  and  generosity,  as  displayed  by  Colonel 
Caldwell,  did  not  agree  with  the  pictures  of  Yankee  ava- 
rice and  harshness  so  freely  circulated  by  the  shrieking 
politicians. 

That  night  the  horses  were  safely  hidden  away  where 
the  Yankees  might  not  see  them  and  yield  to  the  tempta- 
tion to  exercise  their  proverbial  trading  propensities.  The 
family  were  unstinted  in  their  praise  of  Clarke,  and  the 
women  folk  were  inclined  to  pet  him,  to  which  proceed- 
ing he  had  serious  objections. 

He  wanted  to  hurry  up  and  be  a  man  and  anything 
that  bore  savor  of  coddling  or  pity  was  repugnant.  Ah ! 
when  he  was  a  man :  He  dreamed  of  the  things  he  would 
do.  Of  course  the  family  would  all  be  together  again  and 

[60] 


what  pleasure  it  would  be  in  saying  to  them:  "You 
needn't  suffer  for  anything  in  the  world.  I'll  take  care  of 
you."  He  would  put  his  arms  about  his  beloved  sister 
Mary,  who  had  loved  him  and  cared  for  him  like  a  little 
mother,  and  tell  her  how  happy  he  was  that  he  could  take 
the  burdens  from  her  shoulders.  And  sisters  Lucy,  Addie 
and  Annie  would  have  a  palace  to  live  in,  with  all  the 
"nigger"  servants  required  to  render  work  unneces- 
sary. Brother  Will  would  acknowledge  him  as  an  equal 
instead  of  the  tagging  "little  brother,"  and  the  two  of 
them  would  take  their  fine  double-barrelled  shotguns  and 
go  hunting  together  just  as  often  as  they  pleased.  It  was 
too  bad  that  the  baby,  Roberta  Crockett  Clarke, — born  in 
Arkansas  and  named  for  Bob  Crockett, — had  died,  for  it 
would  be  fine  to  have  her  to  play  with  and  provide  for. 
With  sorrow  he  knew  that  he  could  not  have  his  father 
and  mother  and  grandfather  and  grandmother.  But  God 
had  taken  these  and  the  best  he  could  do1  would  be  to 
reunite  the  fragmentary  family  and  take  care  of  them. 

Then,  of  course,  all  these  dream  plans  would  include 
his  marriage  with  Fannie  Waffords,  a  young  lady  then 
eleven  years  of  age,  whom  he  had  selected  as  his  life  com- 
panion. Bob  Waffords,  the  father,  had  not  yet  been  ap- 
prised of  the  happy  fate  in  store  for  his  daughter,  but 
when  Bascom  went  up  to  him  loaded  with  wealth  and 
crowned  with  honors  and  demanded  his  daughter,  he 
would  be  compelled  to  submit.  Bob  might  remember  when 
young  Clarke  proposed  to  shoot  him  for  making  threats 
against  the  favorite  Clarke  hog,  which,  with  rare  gift  of 
selection,  had  chosen  to  eat  up  one  of  Waffords'  baby 
goats.  But  all  this  would  be  waved  aside  in  the  "beauti- 
ful days  to  come,"  as  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  Clarke  to 
remember,  and  Bob  would  be  proud  to  turn  to  his  neigh- 
bors and  say: 

"This  is  my  son-in-law,  Bascom  B.  Clarke,  Esquire." 
And  so  he  dreamed  and  dreamed  of  the  time  when  he 
should  be  a  man,  and  the  devil  came  and  offered  to  make 
a  man  of  him  right  away. 

[61] 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"Old  Man"  Smith,  a  tanner  by  trade,  lived  in  a  place 
remote  from  the  highway,  where  he  had  squatted  on  com- 
ing west  from  North  Carolina.  One  Sunday  morning  Bas- 
com  was  on  his  way  to  see  his  sister  Mary,  who  was  with 
a  family  who  owned  the  grist  mill  which  did  the  custom 
work  of  grinding  for  that  neighborhood.  As  he  came  to 
the  highway  Smith  was  just  passing  with  an  ox-team, 
going  toward  the  mill. 

"Whah  you-all  goin',  sonny,"  said  Smith. 

The  boy  informed  him. 

"Come  on  in  the  wagon  an'  ride,  then,  foh  that's  whah 
I'm  goin'." 

The  loquacious  Smith  entered  into  immediate  conversa- 
tion. 

' '  So  youah  f atheh  was  Colonel  Clarke !  So,  ho !  A 
mighty  fine  man!  A  mighty  fine  man!  You-all  can  be 
proud  to  have  such  a  man  foh  a  f  atheh !  Whah  you-all 
livin'  now?" 

The  boy  informed  him.  Now,  it  happened  Smith  was 
not  specially  fond  of  the  Ramsdales. 

"Oh,  ho !  What  do  you-all  do  theah?  Jest  strut  aroun' 
an'  ac'  a  'ristocrat,  I  s'pose!  They  ain't  nuthin'  foh  a 
man  to  do  on  one  of  them  plantations.  Even  the  niggers 
ain'  what  they  used  to  be,  ner  what  they  was  back  than 
in  Nawth  Ca  'lina  whah  I  cum  from.  It  took  men  to  han- 
dle the  niggers  back  thah.  They  wan't  none  o '  this  wishy- 
washy  stuff  they  have  on  plantations  in  Arkansas.  Why, 
I've  killed  mo'n  one  of  'em  makin'  'em  toe  the  mark  and 
wo'k.  I  was  ovehseer  on  one  of  the  biggest  plantations 
in  Nawth  Ca'lina,  an'  it  took  some  man  to  be  a  ovehseer 
in  those  days!  What  you  goin'  to  do  with  yourse'f  when 
you  get  growed  up,  ef  you-all  don'  do  nothin'  to  ha 'den 
youse'f  now?  You-all  air  a  sma't  boy,  too  sma't  to  be 

[62] 


layin'  'roun'  a  plantation.  They  ain't  nobody  theah  but 
a  lot  o'  lollypaloosin'  wimmen,  an'  they's  too  saft  to  make 
a  man  o'  a  boy.  Now,  if  you-all  was  to  my  house,  they'd 
be  some  chance  o'  youah  bein'  somethin'  sometime.  Why, 
my  five  year  ol'  boy's  mo'  o'  a  man  than  haff  the  planters' 
sons  in  the  neighbo'hood.  You'll  nevah  git  ter  be  no 
man  at  Ramsedale's.  Come  on  ovah  and  live  with  we- 
uns,  an'  you'll  be  a  man  afo'  you  know  it.  An*  then 
you-all  kin  do  big  things." 

It  was  wily  bait,  and  it  took  a  hold  on  the  lad.  To  be 
a  man  and  not  wait  the  long,  long  years!  Soon  he  was 
telling  the  old  man  his  hopes  and  wishes,  unburdening 
his  soul  to  this  evident  sympathetic  listener.  And  Smith 
was  quick  to  take  advantage  of  the  knowledge  thus  ob- 
tained. He  painted  in  glowing  colors  the  great  times 
they  had,  the  opportunities  for  wealth,  and  the  freedom 
from  restraint  accompanying  the  life  led  at  the  Smith 
place.  The  final  result  was  that  Bascom  was  persuaded 
to  join  fortunes  with  the  Smiths. 

It  was  a  rough  life  into  which  he  thus  injected  himself, 
and  a  striking  contrast  to  the  refinement,  cleanliness  and 
godliness  of  the  Clarke  household.  It  made  Bascom  home- 
sick. Vicious  tempers  and  blows  were  daily  and  hourly 
occurrences  on  the  part  of  the  man.  The  whole  atmos- 
phere was  surcharged  with  brutality  and  ignorance. 
"What  a  place  in  which  to  rear  and  train  the  future  citizen 
of  a  great  republic.  Eight  husky  children,  two  or  three 
sons-in-law,  besides  the  "Old  Man,"  formed  the  family. 
Quarrels  were  frequent,  and  it  was  but  a  short  time  be- 
fore young  Clarke  found  the  glint  of  the  life  all  worn  off. 

The  old  man,  having  no  "niggers"  to  drive,  drove 
everybody  else  who  came  under  his  power.  His  children 
were  kicked  and  cuffed,  beaten  and  scolded,  and  Bascom 
came  in  for  his  share.  He  might  have  retreated  even  then, 
but  he  had  no  place  to  go.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  re- 
turn to  the  Ramsdales,  for  he  had  deserted  them  for  the 
Smiths  and  was  ashamed  to  go  back.  He  did  not  realize 
that  they  gladly  would  have  forgiven  him  for  leaving, 
and  would  not  hold  the  ten-year-old  boy  to  too  strict  a 

[63] 


standard  in  the  exercise  of  judgment.  But  there  was  no 
one  to  advise  him,  so  he  made  up  his  mind  to  bide  his 
time  and  trust  in  God. 

Nobody  could  take  away  the  influence  of  the  home.  So 
he  suffered  in  silence  and  accepted  the  conditions  with- 
out murumur,  believing  that  in  time  the  way  would  be 
opened  for  him  to  better  things.  But  the  disappointment 
was  intense  when  he  saw  the  weeks  go  by  and  the  prom- 
ised nearness  to  manhood,  which  had  been  held  out  to  him 
by  "Old  Man"  Smith,  failed  to  materialize,  and  he  found 
himself  still  just  little,  lonely,  homesick  boy.  But  God 
was  doing  His  work  in  His  own  way. 

One  night  the  "guerillas,"  who  were  more  to  be  dreaded 
than  the  Yankees,  because  they  preyed  alike  on  friend 
and  foe,  made  their  appearance  at  the  Smith  place  and 
captured  the  old  man,  proposing  to  kill  him,  ostensibly 
because  he  had  not  joined  himself  to  the  Southern  cause. 
He  escaped,  and  under  cover  of  the  night  made  his  way  to 
the  Union  lines,  at  DeValls  Bluff,  where  he  claimed  to  be 
a  persecuted  Union  sympathizer  and  asked  protection. 
The  colonel  told  him  the  best  protection  he  could  give 
them  would  be  the  removal  of  the  family  from  the  neigh- 
borhood to  some  place  up  north,  where  they  would  be 
safe.  This  offer  Smith  eagerly  accepted,  for  it  would  give 
him  a  chance  to  see  the  country  without  expense  to  him- 
self, and  if  there  was  one  thing  more  than  another  he 
thoroughly  enjoyed,  it  was  "movin'  somewheres." 

The  second  day  thereafter,  accordingly,  Bascom  Clarke 
was  surprised  to  see  his  friend,  Colonel  Caldwell,  who  had 
interceded  in  his  behalf  when  the  sentries  had  halted  him. 
The  colonel,  with  three  hundred  cavalry  from  the  Third 
Michigan,  and  a  forage  train  of  three  six-mule  teams  and 
government  wagons,  appeared  at  the  Smith  farm,  loaded 
up  everything  of  value  and  drove  through  the  blazing  sun 
to  DeValls  Bluff,  forty  miles  away,  across  Grand  Prairie. 

Back  in  the  middle  of  the  cornfield  was  an  acre  of 
watermelons  just  ready  for  picking.  The  milk  from  twenty 
cows  had  been  churned  in  three  big  six-gallon  stone  jars 
and  the  buttermilk  was  fresh  when  the  soldiers  arrived. 

'[64] 


The  soldiers  were  hungry,  for  they  had  been  living  on 
hard  tack  and  salt  pork  for  months.  After  the  few  per- 
sonal effects  allowed  were  loaded  in  the  wagons,  the  Colo- 
nel told  Smith  he  couldn  't  haul  the  cdop  of  chickens  which 
were  all  ready  for  shipment,  but  took  out  three  dollars  in 
greenbacks  and  bought  them  from  the  old  man.  Then 
the  soldiers  were  told  about  the  melons  and  sweet  potatoes 
back  in  the  cornfield. 

What  a  scene!  Some  made  for  the  melon  patch  and 
others  for  the  chickens.  Old  roosters,  young  pullets  and 
everything  of  the  sort  were  caught,  killed  and  confiscated 
to  the  use  of  the  invading  forces  of  the  United  States  of 
America.  One  soldier  discovered  the  three  jars  of  butter- 
milk. Down  into  a  jar  went  his  canteen  and  the  conse- 
quent "blub,  blub,  blub"  attracted  the  attention  of  others. 
Soon  there  was  a  good-natured  rivalry  over  the  possession 
of  this  delicacy.  One  soldier  grabbed  an  almost  empty 
jar  and  holding  it  up  drank  from  it  while  a  stream  of 
buttermilk  poured  down  both  sides  of  his  face.  The  arte- 
sian well  was  drained  of  water,  the  mules  hitched  to  the 
big  army  wagons,  the  bugle  sounded  "Forward!"  and 
the  lad  was  on  his  way  to  the  Union  lines. 

While  the  soldiers  were  in  the  melon  patch,  to  which 
Bascom  had  piloted  them,  one  of  them  had  thrown  aside 
his  haversack,  revealing  among  other  things  some  WHITE 
BREAD!  Te  gods!  WHITE  BREAD!  He  seized  a 
piece  and  hardly  waiting  permission  from  its  owner  got 
his  teeth  into  it. 

"Keep  her,  bub,  she's  yourn.  You  showed  us  the  melon 
patch,  and  you're  welcome  to  the  gun  waddin'." 

Gun  wadding!  Shades  of  Epicurus!  What  sacrilege! 
This  was  the  kind  of  bread  that  Jesus  meant  when  He 
spoke  the  words:  "Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread," 
according  to  young  Clarke's  firmly  fixed  opinion.  It  was 
the  kind  of  bread  for  which  his  father  returned  reverent 
thanks,  and  the  only  kind  that  ever  graced  a  Clarke  table, 
before  or  since,  except  on  rare  occasions  when  wheat  flour 
was  not  obtainable.  Since  the  home  had  been  broken  up 
he  had  seen  practically  nothing  but  corn  pone,  and  his 

5  [65] 


inherited  and  cultivated  repugnance  to  that  article  of 
diet,  so  universally  used  in  that  region,  and  his  long  en- 
forced abstinence  from  the  bread  of  his  fathers,  put  Bas- 
com  in  a  frame  of  mind  where  this  white  loaf  represented 
the  greatest  possession  on  earth.  He  carefully  cared  for 
it,  and  in  the  army  wagon  all  the  way  across  the  prairie, 
amidst  the  heat  and  dust,  like  a  chicken  choked  on  corn 
meal,  he  tried  to  swallow  this  delicacy  of  delicacies  with- 
out any  water. 

At  night  the  party  were  safe  in  the  lines  of  the  Union 
army  at  DeValls  Bluff. 


[66] 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  camp  at  DeValls  Bluff  proved  a  great  attraction 
to  Bascom.  Night  had  fallen  when  they  arrived,  and  for 
a  long  time  before  they  reached  the  town  they  had  been 
passing  the  outposts.  He  had  heard  the  challenge  of  the 
pickets  and  witnessed  the  giving  of  the  countersign,  that 
magic  word  which  proved  the  friendly  character  of  the 
party.  He  had  seen  the  sentries  step  back,  bring  their 
guns  to  a  "carry,"  and  give  the  freedom  of  the  road  to 
the  cavalcade  with  the  refugees  under  its  protection. 
Farther  along  they  began  to  catch  the  twinkle  of  the 
campfires,  and  discern  the  shadowy  figures  around  them, 
and  then  they  suddenly  found  themselves  in  the  midst  of 
a  tented  city.  The  soldiers  not  on  guard  duty  were  lying 
around  or  sitting  in  groups  singing,  laughing  and  evi- 
dently thoroughly  enjoying  themselves,  as  though  no  such 
thing  as  war  and  the  gore  of  battlefields  ever  entered 
their  thoughts. 

The  refugees  were  assigned  to  quarters  and  given  ra- 
tions, which  included,  much  to  Bascom 's  delight,  more 
white  bread.  Not  until  they  appeared,  however,  did  he 
dispose  of  the  carefully  preserved  remnant  of  the  loaf 
contributed  by  the  soldier  of  the  melon  patch.  But  with 
plenty  to  eat  and  a  safe  place  to  stay,  the  boy  soon  forgot 
everything  in  the  luxurious  oblivion  of  childhood's  sleep. 

A  cannon  shot  reverberated  from  bluff  to  bluff,  and 
brought  Bascom  from  his  blanket  to  his  feet.  It  was 
immediately  followed  by  a  long  roll  of  the  drums.  Trem- 
bling with  fear  and  excitement,  and  fully  believing  a 
battle  was  on  and  he  in  the  midst  of  it,  the  lad  made  bold 
to  ask  a  hurrying  soldier  if  there  was  going  to  be  a  fight. 
The  soldier  laughed. 

"No,  bub,  'tain't  no  fight.  It's  jest  mornin'  gun  and 

[67] 


revilly.  It's  jest  a  noisy  way  they  hev  of  tellin'  ye  to  get 
up  and  wash  yer  face  and  get  ready  for  breakfast." 

Bascom,  his  fears  quieted,  with  great  curiosity  watched 
the  soldiers  form  in  line,  heard  the  roll  call  and  saw  his 
grandfather's  flag,  the  stars  and  stripes,  lazily  waving  in 
the  breeze  of  the  hot  summer  morning.  It  was  a  great 
sight.  Bight  at  hand  were  his  friends,  Colonel  Caldwell's 
cavalry,  with  the  man  who  wanted  to  trade  horses  with 
him  sitting  like  a  statue  on  a  fine  specimen  of  genus 
equine.  He  evidently  had  succeeded  in  making  a  "trade" 
to  his  advantage,  but  the  lad  saw  with  satisfaction  that 
neither  "Jenny"  nor  "Ben"  constituted  the  cavalry- 
man's mount.  After  the  events  of  yesterday,  these  men 
belonged  to  the  boy  and  were  invested  with  heroic  attri- 
butes which  would  have  brought  a  blush  of  pride  to  their 
bronzed  cheeks  had  they  realized  it.  Beyond  the  cavalry 
was  the  long  line  of  infantry,  and  still  farther  along,  the 
artillery. 

To  the  boy  who  had  witnessed  the  departure  of  the 
Mount  Adams  recruits,  there  suddenly  came  a  doubt  as 
to  the  certainty  of  Southern  success  in  the  conflict.  These 
men  seemed  just  as  strong,  just  as  devoted  to  their  cause, 
and  just  as  earnest  in  their  convictions  as  his  fellow 
townsmen.  In  his  wondering  eyes  there  seemed  to  be 
sodiers  enough  at  DeValls  Bluff  to  meet  all  the  conditions 
of  war,  and  he  was  glad  Bob  Crockett  was  not  there,  for 
even  Bob,  the  criterion  of  bravery  and  military  genius  to 
Bascom,  might  be  killed  if  he  came  in  contact  with  this 
array  of  fighters.  So  interested  was  the  boy  that  he  was 
totally  unprepared  to  see  the  lines  melt  away  as  suddenly 
as  they  had  formed,  and  the  men  go  back  to  their  quarters 
for  breakfast.  He  then  remembered  that  he  had  not  had 
his  breakfast  as  yet,  so  he  returned  to  join  the  Smith  fam- 
ily, the  members  of  which  were  already  busily  engaged 
in  converting  loyal  rations  into  rebel  tissue. 

Truly  a  forlorn  little  creature  he  was, — homespun 
trousers,  worn  and  frayed,  held  up  by  one  "gallus,"  and 
a  hickory  shirt,  completed  the  sum  total  of  his  raiment. 
He  had  no  hat  or  shoes,  so  bareheaded,  barefoQted^  ajid 

168] 


lonely,  he  seemed  driftwood  on  the  sea  of  humanity.  But 
in  his  heart  was  hope,  youth's  effervescence  to  the  still 
waters  of  despair. 

Old  Man  Smith  began  to  talk  about  what  he  would  do 
up  North  where  he  was  going.  He  held  the  government 
responsible  for  the  war  and  the  war  was  responsible  for 
his  being  an  outcast  among  his  people,  and  therefore  he 
proposed  to  take  advantage  of  the  government's  having 
him  and  his  family  on  its  hands.  It  seemed  almost  as 
though  he  believed  the  United  States  ought  to  give  him 
a  pension,  so  that  he  could  live  the  rest  of  his  days  with- 
out work,  in  return  for  his  compulsory  banishment  from 
Arkansas.  To  Bascom  it  was  a  serious  situation.  In  the 
little  cemetery  at  Mount  Adams  and  scattered  about  the 
neighborhood,  were  all  who  ever  loved  him  or  cared  what 
became  of  him.  There  were  neither  ties  of  sympathy  nor 
comradeship  between  him  and  the  Smiths. 

One  day  an  Arkansas  farmer  brought  in  a  number  of 
cattle  to  the  camp  for  sale.  A  yearling  steer  escaped 
from  the  herd  and  went  cavorting  in  every  direction,  de- 
fying every  effort  to  capture  it.  The  farmer,  worn  out  in 
his  efforts  to  catch  it,  finally  offered  two  dollars  to  the 
parties  who  would  secure  the  animal.  Here  was  where 
Bascom 's  genius  came  in  play.  He  held  a  hurried  con- 
sultation with  the  Smith  boys,  and  big  "Bull,"  the  head 
of  the  Smith  pack  of  hounds,  was  called.  The  boys  took 
him  out  where  he  could  get  a  good  look  at  the  calf,  and 
yelled  in  chorus: 

"Sic    'em!" 

The  dog  sized  up  the  "critter,"  quickly  judged  what 
was  wanted,  and  was  off.  The  calf  saw  him  coming,  and 
with  tail  high  commenced  a  zig-zag  course  through  the 
camp  streets,  around  the  tents,  past  the  headquarters, 
out  into  the  open  field  and  back  again,  stumbled  over  a 
tent  rope,  and  was  on  his  feet  again,  then  doubled  on  his 
tracks  and  on  like  the  wind.  "Bull"  knew  his  business, 
however,  and  watching  his  chance,  made  a  dive  and  got 
the  beast  by  the  nose  and  held  on.  The  steer  shook, 
pawed,  backed  up  and  rushed  forward,  but  could  not 

[69] 


overcome  the  disadvantage  of  this  clinging  thing  on  the 
nose. 

The  boys  by  this  time  were  close  at  hand  and  in  a  few 
minutes  had  the  now  thoroughly  subdued  steer  roped  and 
delivered  to  the  owner.  The  two  dollars  reward  was  given 
to  them  and  divided.  Bascom's  share  was  ten  cents, 
which  he  proceeded  to  spend  for  gingerbread,  a  dainty 
that  had  so  long  been  absent  from  his  bill  of  fare  that 
it  seemed  almost  as  if  he  must  have  dreamed  that  there 
was  such  a  thing  as  gingerbread.  He  did  full  justice  to 
the  delicacy.  It  was  well  he  did,  for  it  was  a  long,  long 
time  before  he  had  another  taste. 

For  two  weeks  the  refugees  were  within  the  Union 
lines  at  the  Bluff,  waiting  for  the  coming  of  a  transport 
bound  down  the  river.  The  life  of  inactivity  began  to 
pall  on  them  all.  And  it  was  a  relief  to  everybody  when 
the  steamer  Kenton,  convoyed  by  two  gunboats,  poked 
her  nose  against  the  landing  and  made  fast.  Then  all 
was  hurry  and  bustle,  for  the  Kenton  was  under  orders 
to  take  on  board  the  Second  Indiana  Battery,  which  was 
going  home,  its  term  of  service  having  expired. 

The  refugees,  who  included  several  families  besides  the 
Smith  contingent  and  quite  a  number  of  negroes,  were  to 
go  on  this  boat  also,  this  being  the  easiest  way  of  ridding 
the  army  of  the  burden  of  their  maintenance,  and  at  the 
same  time  guaranteeing  their  safety.  All  of  the  white  peo- 
ple in  the  party  were  suspected  of  being  more  or  less  in 
sympathy  with  the  cause  of  the  Northerners,  and  a  mere 
suspicion  was  all  that  was  necessary  to  endanger  their 
lives  if  they  remained.  The  armed  bands  of  guerillas  did 
not  wait  for  an  overt  act  in  favor  of  the  north,  but  often 
used  a  purely  imagined  Union  sentiment  as  an  excuse  for 
murder  and  pillage. 

This  was  clearly  demonstrated  in  the  case  of  Old  Man 
Smith,  for  by  no  process  of  reasonable  logic  could  he  be 
called  a  Union  sympathizer.  But  he  was  wont  at  times 
to  harangue  against  the  unequal  distribution  of  wealth 
and  inveigh  against  aristocracy.  As  a  result  his  tongue 
would  run  away  with  itself  and  he  gave  utterance  to 

[70] 


words  in  a  spirit  of  braggadocio  which  could  be  twisted 
into  criticism  of  the  acts  of  the  Confederacy.  He  knew 
personally  many  of  the  men  in  the  guerilla  band  which 
had  captured  him  and  they  knew  he  had  recognized  them. 
As  they  were  outlawed  by  both  armies,  this  information 
would  probably  result  in  serious  trouble  for  them  if  dis- 
closed. So  Smith  knew  if  they  got  him  again  he  would 
have  a  very  few  minutes  to  live.  Hence,  he  would  rather 
take  advantage  of  his  false  position  as  a  Union  sympa- 
thizer and  thus  escape  certain  death  at  their  hands. 

The  fact  that  Bascom  knew  that  he  was  not  a  Union 
man,  from  many  things  he  had  said  in  the  freedom  of  his 
home,  and  the  fear  that  the  boy  might  in  some  way  con- 
vey this  knowledge  to  the  military  authorities,  undoubt- 
edly secured  to  young  Clarke  immunity  for  a  time  from 
the  harsh  treatment  usually  accorded  him.  Smith  had 
been  furnishing  leather  to  the  Southern  Confederacy  al- 
most from  the  beginning  of  the  war,  and  up  to  the  time 
the  blockade  had  made  it  practically  impossible  to  dis- 
pose of  his  product,  he  had  prospered  to  an  unusual  de- 
gree. Now,  with  the  market  for  his  leather  gone,  through 
the  coming  of  the  Union  forces  and  the  misunderstanding 
between  himself  and  his  old  neighbors  which  imperiled 
his  life,  he  was  cunning  enough  to  use  the  situation  to 
his  advantage  and  get  out  of  the  country  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  flag  he  had  despised. 

Bascom  had  heard  that  they  were  to*  go  with  the 
"Hoosier"  battery,  so  he  went  over  to  the  quarters  of 
these  men  to  see  what  sort  of  a  looking  creature  a 
"Hoosier"  was,  expecting  to  find  something  unusual  in 
appearance.  Not  yet  having  had  his  mental  machinery 
adjusted  to  Indiana  standards,  he  could  discern  no  spe- 
cial distinction,  and  was  somewhat  disappointed.  Later 
in  life,  when  saturated  with  Indiana  spirit,  he  became  so 
thorough  a  Hoosier  himself  that  he,  too,  believed  that 
God  had  used  a  little  more  of  His  likeness  when  he  created 
the  people  of  that  commonwealth  than  when  He  made 
the  rest  of  mankind.  But  that  evolution  or  transition  to 

[71] 


the  high  state  of  human  perfection  belonging  distinctively 
to  Indiana  is  properly  another  part  of  this  story. 

"Where's  yer  hat,  bub?"  asked  one  of  the  men  whom 
he  was  watching  getting  his  things  together  for  the  move. 

"Lost  it,  suh,"  was  the  reply. 

"That's  too  bad,  by  Josh!  You  'n'  your  pa  and  the 
rest  of  the  family  's  goin'  north  with  us,  be  yuh?" 

"He  ain't  my  father,  suh." 

"Ain't  he?  Where's  your  father?  In  the  army  fight- 
in'  agin  us?" 

"No,  suh;  my  father,  Colonel  James  Clarke,  is  dead, 
suh." 

"By  Josh,  that's  too  bad.    Where's  your  ma?" 

"My  mother's  dead,  too,  suh." 

"By  Josh,  that's  too  bad,  son.  Sure  I'm  sorry  for  you. 
But  yer  goin '  north  with  us,  ain  't  yuh  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  suh,  I  reckon  I  am." 

"By  Josh,  that's  the  boy!  Come  on  up  with  us  to  old 
Indiana,  where  you'll  have  a  chance  to  grow  up  and  where 
there  ain't  nobody  prouder 'n  nobody  else.  The  common 
people  up  there  's  all  'ristocrats,  and  the  'ristocrats  is 
jest  like  you  'n'  me.  They  reckon  people  by  what  they 
is,  not  what  they  pretend  to  be.  We  ain't  much  shakes 
on  style,  but  we're  an  ace  high  royal  flush  when  it  comes 
to  bein'  right.  When  Adam  and  Eve  got  through  with 
the  Garden  of  Eden  God  gave  the  snake  to  South  Caro- 
lina and  set  the  garden  down  in  Indiana.  South  Carolina 
wanted  the  snake  and  Indiana  wanted  the  garden.  You 
ain't  ever  been  in  Indiana,  son,  but  stay  with  us,  by  Josh, 
and  we'll  show  you  what  livin'  is.  I  don't  believe  yuh 
ever  eat  a  punkin  pie  in  yer  life,  did  yer?  No,  I  thought 
not.  Nobody  never  eat  no  punkin  pie  unless  'twas  in  In- 
diana. They  have  imitations  other  places,  but  there's  as 
much  difference  between  a  Indiana  punkin  pie  and  what 
they  call  punkin  pie  other  places,  as  there  is  atween  a 
slipp  'ry  elm  poultice  and  a  mustard  plaster.  Fer  a  bruise 
that  needs  suthin'  coolin'  and  soothin',  a  slipp 'ry  elm 
poultice  is  jest  the  thing.  It'll  make  you  forget  you  ever 
had  a  ache  er  a  pain,  and  you'll  drop  off  to  sleep  like  a 

[72] 


nussin'  baby.  When  yer  in  a  terrible  state  they'll  slap  a 
mustard  plaster  on  ye,  and  the  dern  thing '11  begin  to  burn 
and  blister  and  you'll  beg  'em  to  take  it  off,  but  they'll 
leave  it  on  till  it  hurts  worse 'n  the  original  ache,  and 
then  you're  supposed  to  be  cured.  An  Indiana  punkin 
pie  '11  slide  gently  down,  feeling  good  all  the  way,  then 
it'll  softly  nestle  itself  in  the  cozy  corner  o*  yer  stum- 
mick  and  telegraph  back  to  yer  brain  to  quit  worryin', 
everythin's  all  right;  then  it'll  hum  'Home,  Sweet  Home,' 
and  you'll  go  to  sleep  and  dream  of  angels  fannin'  yuh 
softly  with  their  wings  and  smoothin'  yer  hair  back  from 
yer  for'ead  like  mother  used  to  do.  And  you'll  wake  up 
a  new  man.  But  you  got  to  be  tarnal  hungry  to  eat  the 
other  kind.  If  you  do,  you'll  wish  you  hadn't,  and  you'll 
feel  so  punk  you'll  forget  you're  hungry." 

"Say,  Bill,"  drawled  his  bunk  mate,  "shet  down  on 
yer  aeolian  harp  and  help  me  pack." 

"All  right,  but  wait  a  minit.  I'm  givin'  a  lesson  on 
Indiana  to  a  poor  kid  what  don't  know  nothin'  about  it, 
and  the  packin'  can  go  to  thunder  till  I  get  through. 
We're  go  in'  home,  Jim,  home  to  Indiana.  Do  you  realize 
it  ?  And  this  boy 's  mind 's  got  to  be  put  in  shape  to  stand 
the  shock  of  the  change  before  we  get  there.  Say,  son, 
here's  a  cap  for  ye.  I  got  a  new  one,  and  this  one '11  be 
all  right  for  you,  and  you  don't  have  to  go  bareheaded. 
You  see  that  flag  up  there?"  [pointing  to  the  camp  colors.] 

"Yes,  suh." 

"Well,  mind  you  touch  that  cap  this  way  [indicating] 
every  time  you  go  by  it." 

"Yes,  suh." 

"Do  you  know  what  flag  that  is,  boy?" 

"Yes,  suh,  it's  the  flag  my  grandfather  fought  for  in 
the  War  of  1812." 

"By  Josh,  is  that  so?  Say,  Bill,  here's  a  Yankee  sol- 
dier by  descent!  Well,  son,  if  your  grandfather  fit  for 
that  flag,  it'll  be  good  enough  for  you  to  live  under,  and 
it's  the  one  good  thing  in  this  country  that's  just  as  good 
in  any  other  place  as  it  is  in  Indiana,  though  sometimes 
I  think  the  air  in  Indiana  makes  its  colors  look  brighter, 

[73] 


and  the  wind  touches  it  a  little  more  feelin'ly  there  than 
anywhere  else  in  the  United  States." 

"Come  on,  Jim,  let's  get  this  packin'  done  er  we'll 
never  git  to  Indiana." 

Proud  in  the  possession  of  his  new  head-gear,  Bascom 
walked  back  and  forth  past  the  flag  several  times  and 
brought  his  hand  up  in  salute.  From  that  time  on  it  was 
his  flag.  On  his  return  to  the  Smith  family,  various  com- 
ments were  made  on  his  appearance,  and  some  insulting 
remarks  on  the  uniform  it  represented  slipped  out  from 
more  than  one,  but  the  old  man  stopped  them  quickly. 

"No  more  o'  that !  Hang  on  to  you-all  pizen  togues  till 
we  git  somewheres." 

The  next  morning  the  refugees  went  on  board  a  trans- 
port, on  which  they  found  themselves  mixed  up  with  a 
lot  of  colored  people.  The  old  training  was  not  gone, 
however,  and  the  negroes  kept  to  themselves  and  did  not 
seek  to  mingle  with  the  whites.  The  Indiana  regiment 
marched  on  board  with  the  fifes  and  drums  playing  ' '  The 
Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me."  The  guns  convoying  the  trans- 
port took  their  stations,  and  soon  the  order  came  to 
"cast  off." 

Just  before  the  boat  left,  Mr.  Elliott,  at  whose  home 
Bascom 's  sister  Mary  was  living,  came  on  board  and 
sought  out  the  boy.  Did  he  know  how  homesick  the  lad 
was?  Could  the  man  see  the  little  chap's  wretched  pre- 
tense at  being  cheerful  when  his  hjeart  was  breaking  for 
the  companionship  and  love  of  his  own  folk?  Could  it 
be  possible  Mr.  Elliott  was  blind  to  the  fact  that  the  boy 
would  go  back  with  him  even  then,  and  was  only  waiting 
for  the  suggestion  to  be  made  ?  Quietly  Mr.  Elliott  spoke : 

"I've  thought  it  all  over,  Bascom,  and  I  can't  advise 
you  to  stay.  I  don't  know  what  theah  is  to  stay  for.  God 
alone  knows  what  is  ahead  of  us.  I  believe  theah  is  mo' 
to  hope  for  up  yonder  where  you-all  are  going,  and  I  don't 
believe  you'll  forget  you  are  a  Clarke,  and  bear  the  name 
of  good,  honorable,  Christian  people.  Whatever  you  are, 
and  wherever  you  are,  you  will  be  either  a  credit  or  dis- 
credit to  them.  They  have  laid  a  foundation  of  good  in- 

[74] 


fiuence  and  good  teaching.  Anything  else  there  is  to  you 
will  be  builded  by  yourself.  Your  sister  sends  her  love 
and  says  to  tell  you  she'll  pray  for  you  every  day.  Mary 
is  a  good  girl,  Bascom,  and  for  her  sake,  as  well  as  your 
own,  keep  your  name  clean.  Good-bye  and  God  bless 
you." 

"  Good-bye,  suh,"  said  Bascom,  choking  back  the  tears. 
"Tell  Mary  I  won't  forget,  suh,  and  thanky  for  comin', 
suh ! ' '  The  last  word  from  home  had  been  spoken.  Mr. 
Elliott  crossed  the  gang  plank  to  the  landing  and  as  the 
boat  swung  into  the  stream  he  waved  a  farewell  from 
the  bank. 


[75] 


CHAPTER  X. 

Life  on  the  Kenton  was  a  novel  experience  to  the  refu- 
gees, for  few  of  them  had  ever  been  "down  the  river" 
before.  As  the  transport  and  protecting  gunboats  swung 
out  into  the  stream  they  crowded  the  rail  to  watch  the 
receding  shore,  and  call  or  wave  their  farewells.  The 
soldiers  off  duty  were  all  on  hand  to  give  parting  cheer 
to  their  Indiana  comrades. 

A  great  sense  of  loneliness  came  over  Bascom.  The 
noise  and  bustle  of  starting  on  their  long  journey,  and 
the  business  of  getting  settled  on  the  transport  did  not 
suffice  to  overcome  the  choky  feeling  in  his  throat.  His 
face  must  have  been  mournful,  indeed,  for  Jim  Stone,  the 
soldier  who  had  given  him  the  cap,  hailed  him : 

"Say,  Johnny,  you  look  like  yuh  was  goin'  to  yer  own 
funeral.  Ain't  homesick  a 'ready,  be  yuh?" 

"I  ain't  got  a  home,"  said  the  boy. 

"Oh,  yes,  by  Josh,  I  forgot.  Well,  if  yuh  ain't  got  no 
home  yer  headed  jest  the  right  way  to  git  one.  People 
don't  have  to  be  homeless  in  Indiana  'less  they  wants  to. 
Yuh  jes'  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip,  and  yer  eyes  wide  open, 
and  yuh '11  git  along  all  right." 

"Kin  I  git  anythin'  to  do,  suh?"  inquired  Bascom. 

"Anything  to  do!  Work!  Why,  work  is  so  plenty  in 
Indiana  that  I  know  a  man  who  was  chased  so  hard  by  it 
that  he  died.  But  he  was  one  of  the  kind  that  was  always 
afraid  work  would  ketch  him.  If  yer  willin'  to  hustle 
and  ain't  particular  to  hunt  fer  soft-handed  jobs  you 
won't  have  to  borry  money  to  live  on  up  there.  What  kin 
yuh  do?" 

"Anythin'  any  other  boy  can  do,  suh." 

"Did  yer  ever  shuck  corn?" 

"No,  suh,  but  I  kin  learn." 

' '  Sure  yuh  can,  and  it 's  some  trade  when  its  done  right. 

[76] 


A  good  corn  husker  can  earn  good  money.  We'll  be 
home  before  huskin'  time  and  you'll  hev  a  chance  to  get 
your  hand  in.  'Bout  the  first  thing  you'll  need  is  a  husk- 
in'  peg.  Never  seen  one,  did  yer?  No,  o'  course  not. 
Well,  a  huskin '  peg  is  as  necessary  to  a  Hoosier  as  a  blade 
to  a  knife,  and  an  Indiana  man  would  as  soon  go  away 
from  home  'thout  his  shirt  as  to  leave  his  huskin'  peg 
behin'." 

"Can  I  see  yours?"  asked  Bascom. 

An  instant's  hesitation,  and  a  choke  and  a  splutter, 
which  sounded  suspiciously  like  a  smothered  chuckle,  and 
then: 

"Oh,  mine  did  you  say?  By  Josh!  You  know  I  might 
'a'  been  killed  or  took  prisoner  by  you  Johnnies  while  I 
was  down  here  eatin'  hardtack  and  chasin'  graybacks, 
and  I  wouldn't  want  to  carry  along  anything  so  valuable 
as  my  peg.  You  know  some  people  use  jest  common  pegs, 
made  o'  a  piece  of  hickory  with  a  leather  thong  to  put 
yer  middle  finger  through.  But  I  was  a  prize  winner  at 
huskin '  bees,  and  mine  was  made  of  ebony,  gold  mounted, 
with  a  diamond  as  big  as  a  marble  in  the  butt.  Then  I 
had  a  gold  cord  for  the  finger.  I'm  sorry,  son,  I  haven't 
it  here  to  show  yer,  'cause  'twould  make  yer  eyes  stick 
out  like  cannonballs.  I  put  it  in  the  bank  when  I  went 
into  the  army,  for  I  thought  'twould  look  kind  of  queer 
fer  me  to  be  hevin'  so  expensive  a  ornament  on  my  thir- 
teen dollars  per.  Some  of  the  expert  shuckers  hev  pegs 
imported  fr'm  Africa,  made  out  o'  solid  ivory  and  inlaid 
with  pearls  and  precious  stuns.  A  huskin'  peg  is  a  kind 
o'  badge  in  Indiana,  and  no  one  is  considered  respectable 
without  havin'  one." 

"Do  yuh  think  I  can  git  one,  suh?" 

"Well,  by  Josh,  I'll  make  yer  one,  for  I  don't  want 
you  crossin'  the  line  into  the  state  without  it." 

And  so,  by  the  good  nature  and  kindly  consideration 
of  the  soldier,  the  mind  of  the  lad  was  diverted  from  him- 
self for  the  time.  All  the  refugees  began  to  make  them- 
selves as  comfortable  as  they  could  for  the  long  trip.  They 
were  crowded  on  the  lower  deck  of  the  Kenton,  and  any- 

[77] 


thing  like  cleanliness  was  impossible.  They  had  enough 
to  eat,  such  as  it  was,  hard  tack  and  salt  pork,  but  they 
had  real  coffee,  which  was  to  them  nectar  of  the  gods,  so 
long  had  they  been  deprived  of  it.  The  buoyant  spirit  of 
the  soldiers  going  home  was  infectious,  and  despite  the 
discomforts  of  the  journey  good  feeling  reigned. 

Bascom,  as  the  boats  went  down  the  river,  began  to 
see  familiar  scenes  along  the  shore,  but  was  disappointed 
when  darkness  came  before  they  reached  Mount  Adams, 
so  he  could  not  see  the  home  town.  Its  twinkling  lights 
seemed  to  signal  him  a  farewell  and  bid  him  Godspeed. 
The  memory  of  the  happiness  there  and  the  graves  in  the 
cemetery  surged  upon  him  in  the  darkness,  the  tears  crept 
out  and  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  and  the  stifled  sobs  shook 
the  friendless  waif. 

"Oh,  Mother!"  he  murmured.  "I  want  you.  I'm  all 
alone." 

He  seemed  to  hear  a  voice  softly  saying: 

"God  is  with  you.  You  are  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand. 
Fear  not!" 

And  sleep  was  upon  him,  mending  his  broken  spirits, 
assuaging  his  grief  and  resting  his  body. 

No  chances  were  taken  by  the  officers  in  charge  of  the 
gunboats  and  transport.  All  day  long  as  they  swung  down 
the  "White  River  and  up  the  Mississippi  one  gunboat  was 
ahead  and  the  other  behind  the  transport.  Bands  of  Con- 
federate cavalry  were  still  in  evidence  at  times  all  through 
the  country,  and  the  guerillas  and  bushwhackers  were 
alert  to  commit  depredations.  It  was  the  enemy's  coun- 
try, making  it  advisable  to  use  every  precaution  to  avoid 
a  surprise  which  would  endanger  the  noncombatants  as 
well  as  the  soldiers  on  the  transports.  At  night  the  boats 
were  stopped,  the  gunboats  lashed  themselves  on  either 
side  of  the  Kenton,  and  sentries  paced  the  decks  watch- 
ing for  the  least  sign  of  attack. 

It  was  all  very  wonderful  to  Bascom.  The  soldiers 
going  home  were  full  of  happiness  at  the  thought  of 
mingling  again  with  their  old  friends.  They  gave  him 

[78] 


wonderful  accounts  of  the  country  and  their  word  pic- 
tures were  so  glowing  that  he  began  to  lose  his  homesick- 
ness and  anxiously  wait  the  time  when  he  would  see  this 
marvelous  part  of  the  United  States.  Old  Man  Smith  con- 
cluded that  he  and  those  with  him  would  go  to  Indiana. 
Possibly  the  thought  that  it  meant  a  longer  ride  and  sev- 
eral weeks  more  with  provisions  furnished  by  the  govern- 
ment helped  him  make  his  decision.  But  whatever  his 
motive,  he  accepted  the  proposition  and  announced  that 
they  were  all  going  through. 

The  gunboats,  leading  and  following,  were  objects  of 
great  curiosity  to  the  refugees,  who  now  saw  them  for  the 
first  time  near  enough  to  note  their  construction.  For 
the  most  part  they  were  ordinary  river  steamers  encased 
in  sheet  iron  with  armament  consisting  of  brass  cannon 
and  mortars  for  throwing  shells.  Bascom,  after  his  ob- 
servation, congratulated  himself  on  his  wisdom  in  hurry- 
ing to  a  place  of  safety  when  they  fired  on  Mount  Adams 
at  the  time  the  Confederate  cavalry  attacked  the  up- 
bound  fleet.  The  rows  of  guns  sticking  out  of  the  port 
holes  gave  them  the  appearance  of  continually  showing 
their  teeth  and  being  ready  to  fight  at  the  drop  of  the  hat. 
The  refugee  boy  secretly  hoped  a  challenge  would  come 
in  some  manner  to  call  for  a  demonstration  of  "sassiness" 
on  the  part  of  these  ironclads.  His  hope  was  gratified. 

As  the  boats  were  slowly  steaming  up  the  Mississippi 
River,  one  afternoon,  a  man  was  discovered  on  shore  wav- 
ing a  white  flag.  The  captain  of  the  gunboat  leading  the 
fleet  was  standing  by  the  pilot  house.  He  called  to  the 
man  and  asked  him  what  he  wanted. 

"To  be  taken  on  board,"  was  the  answer. 

Back  of  him  were  the  bluffs  covered  with  timber  and 
underbrush.  The  captain  took  in  the  situation  in  an  in- 
stant. 

"We  can't  land  here.  Come  around  the  next  bend  and 
we'll  send  a  small  boat  ashore  for  you." 

The  man  disappeared  and  the  boats  moved  on.  When 
the  boats  turned  the  bend,  several  hundred  soldiers  were 
discovered  running  back  from  the  river's  edge.  The  am- 

[79] 


buscade  had  failed  and  they  were  making  good  time  to 
get  out  of  range  of  the  guns.  The  transport  was  ordered 
to  the  opposite  shore  and  the  two  gunboats  opened  with 
their  forward  batteries.  For  a  minute  it  thundered  and 
solid  shot  and  screeching  shells  rained  hot  on  the  trail  of 
the  flying  squadron.  Great  clouds  of  dust  showed  where 
the  cannon  balls  struck  and  richocheted  along  the  ground, 
with  an  occasional  upheaval  as  a  shell  exploded.  Talk 
about  the  noise  made  by  the  old  cannon  at  Mount  Adams ! 
Why,  it  was  scarcely  a  whisper  compared  with  this ! 

The  proper  rebuke  having  been  administered  to  the 
band  that  had  so  dishonorably  used  the  flag  of  truce  to 
decoy  the  boats  into  range  for  murder  to  be  committed, 
the  transport  was  again  brought  into  the  line  and  the 
vessels  steamed  on  their  way. 

The  refugee  boy  was  eager  to  see  DeSoto,  Mississippi, 
when  they  passed,  for  here  was  the  place  where  the  Clarke 
family  had  crossed  the  river,  on  the  journey  from  Vir- 
ginia to  Arkansas.  It  was  the  same  little  weather-beaten 
hamlet  and  he  recognized  it  instantly.  He  found  Jim 
Stone,  the  soldier,  and  pointed  the  place  out  to  him.  It 
seemed  as  though  this  one  incident  brought  back  with 
clearness  all  that  long  journey.  DeSoto  was  particularly 
in  his  mind,  for  when  the  Clarke  family  was  coming  to 
this  landing  to  cross  on  the  ferry  the  air  was  literally 
alive  with  paroquets,  a  sight  never  forgotten  by  the  boy. 
Stone  led  Bascom  to  tell  the  story  of  his  life  and  adven- 
tures. With  a  willing  and  sympathetic  listener  the  boy 
found  his  tongue  wagging  freely,  and  the  depression 
which  had  threatened  to  overwhelm  him  was  forgotten 
for  the  time.  The  soldier  encouraged  him  and  in  his  rough 
way  inspired  the  boy  with  faith  in  himself. 

"Don't  you  believe  the  world  can  lick  yuh,"  he  said. 
"It  may  git  yuh  down  and  blacken  yer  eyes,  and  maul 
yer  up  consid'ble,  but  yuh  must  always  come  back  Johnny 
on  the  spot  with  yer  flukes  up  and  yer  head  high.  Don't 
yuh  never  tell  nobody  yer  licked,  evtn  if  yuh  think  it 
yerself.  Life  is  somethin'  like  a  battle,  son,  and  the  world 
is  like  the  enemy.  You  git  ready  to  hit  it  and  lay  yer 

180] 


plans  ter  lick  it,  but  they  attack  in  a  place  and  at  a  time 
when  yer  least  lookin'  fer  it,  and  yer  got  to  change  the 
hull  dern  plan. 

"Over  there  at  Pea  Ridge,  fer  instance,  Gen'l  Curtis 
expected  the  rebs  to  attack  him  by  way  of  Keatsville, 
and  had  all  his  fortifications  aimed  that  way.  The  rebs, 
not  bein'  considerate,  however,  came  by  way  of  the  Ben- 
ton  vijle  road,  an'  hit  the  rear  o'  Curtis'  army.  Now,  no- 
buddy  but  a  genius  could  'a'  switched  his  hull  dern  army 
'round  and  pointed  it  'tother  way,  and  win.  And  do 
yer  know  what  Gen'l  Sigel  did  in  that  battle?  That  old 
Dutchman  found  himself  with  six  hundred  men  and  one 
battery  nearly  surrounded  by  Johnnies,  who  outnumbered 
him  ten  to  one.  It  happened  the  road  to  Sugar  Creek, 
where  Curtis  was,  wound  around  among  the  hills  and 
through  dense  woods.  Sigel  divided  his  force  into  two 
parts,  each  havin'  half  the  battery.  One  half  took  its 
stand  with  its  half  of  the  battery  at  a  bend  in  the  road, 
with  most  of  the  men  and  the  battery  hid  by  the  trees. 
The  other  half  hustled  jest  as  fast  as  their  leg's  'd  carry 
'em  up  the  road  a  mile  er  so,  and  got  the  same  kind  o' 
place.  The  reb  cavalry  come  runnin'  their  nags  up  the 
road,  fully  believein'  they'd  only  ter  put  out  their  hands 
and  nab  the  bunch.  They  had  a  s 'prise  party  when  they 
come  'round  that  first  bend,  and  the  cannon  and  mus- 
kets opened  on  'em.  0'  course  they  stopped.  Who 
wouldn't?  And  while  they  was  guessin'  at  what  hit  'em 
this  first  three  hundred  men  grabbed  their  guns  and  fol- 
lered  the  cannons  and  cais  'ns  up  the  road  past  the  second 
detachment,  and  a  mile  er  so  beyond,  and  then  they'd 
halt  and  plant  theirselves  to  wait  till  the  other  fellers 
hed  got  through  takin'  a  swipe  at  the  horse  jockeys  and 
hed  got  inter  position  behind  'em.  Then  they'd  take  their 
turn  at  shootin'  and  runnin'.  Old  Man  Sigel  would  s'lect 
the  place  fer  the  plant,  then  he'd  go  down  ter  see  how 
things  was  gettin'  on  at  the  scrap.  Then  he'd  shove  'em 
up  the  road,  stayin'  till  the  last  ter  see  that  every  thin' 
was  done;  go  through  and  s'lect  the  place  fer  the  next 
stand,  and  so  on,  back  and  forth,  'till  he  brung  the  hull 

6  [81] 


dern  bunch,  by  Josh,  the  hull  ten  miles  an'  reported  for 
duty  's  though  nuthin '  had  happened.  The  feller  't  wrote 
'Forred,  the  Light  Brigade,'  what  I  hed  to  read  when  I 
was  in  school,  didn't  know  'bout  Old  Sigel  er  he  might 
'a'  added  a  verse  'bout  him. 

"Howsumever,  what  I  am  gettin'  at  is  that  yer  ain't 
allus  licked  when  yer  runnin'.  If  the  world  gets  a  swipe 
at  ye,  and  yer  go  down,  it  don't  allus  wait  fer  the  count 
but  goes  and  Stan's  on  the  corner  and  brags  'bout  what 
it's  done  to  yuh.  Take  enough  of  the  count  tuh  git  yer 
breath,  and  then  hunt  fer  the  solar  plexus  again.  Change 
front  when  yer  think  it  advisable,  run  when  it's  needin' 
better  ground  to  fight  on  yer  are,  and  when  they're  stand- 
in'  round  tellin'  how  they  licked  ye  they're  the  best  meat 
fer  yuh.  Like  a  boa  constrictor  the  world '11  sometimes 
gorge  itself  on  the  spoils  o'  yer  labor,  and  then  go  to 
sleep.  Let  'em  hev  the  things  they  git  away  from  yuh, 
and  don't  waste  any  time  wailin'  erbout  'em,  er  let  any- 
buddy  know  yuh  miss  'em,  but  swipe  'em  in  er  place 
they  ain't  lookin'  fer,  and  be  ready  to  change  front.  If 
yuh  kin  find  somethin'  the  world  says  can't  be  did,  do  it, 
fer  the  path  with  the  least  travel  sometimes  has  the  most 
good  fruit.  Curtis  and  Sigel  at  Pea  Ridge  didn  't  sit  down 
and  mourn,  and  surrender,  because  things  didn't  come  as 
they  planned.  They  took  things  as  they  was  and  ham- 
mered them  into  victory.  Yuh  may  think  the  Old  Man  up 
there  has  his  foot  on  yer  chair,  but  He  ain't.  He'll  not 
stack  the  cards  on  yuh,  ner  shift  the  cut,  but  yer '11  git 
a  square  deal  all  the  time.  He  ain't  ter  blame  for  the 
crookedness  in  the  world,  and  ef  yuh  git  treated  crooked, 
and  ye've  got  the  grit  to  keep  on,  and  yer '11  keep  clean 
and  square  yuh  needn't  be  afraid  God's  goin'  ter  let  yuh 
be  licked." 

"I  ain't  afraid  to  work,  suh,  ef  I  kin  git  any  thin'  to 
do." 

"You  needn't  fear  erbout  that.  Take  the  first  job  that 
comes  ter  hand  that's  honest.  Make  the  most  of  it.  Talk 
more  about  work  than  yuh  do  'bout  wages.  Keep  yer 
eyes  open  and  see  everything.  Keep  yer  mouth  shet  'cept 

[82] 


to  ask  questions.  Don't  give  no  advice  ter  the  feller  yer 
workin'  fer  'less  it's  asked.  Do  yer  work  es  he  says  it  is 
tuh  be  did,  even  ef  yuh  think  yer  way's  the  best.  Yuh 
kin  experiment  with  yer  own  way  when  yer  the  boss  an' 
hev  to  pay  for  it.  Let  the  boss  scold  and  splurge  and 
spit  cuss  words  ef  he  wants  tuh,  once  in  a  while,  and  yuh 
keep  yer  mouth  tight  shet,  'less  he  reflects  on  yer  char- 
acter. Jest  think  thet  you'll  be  big  enough  ter  lick  him 
some  day,  and  postpone  the  talkin'  back  till  yuh  kin  lick 
him.  By  that  time  you'll  feel  sorry  fer  him,  and  like's 
not  yuh '11  loan  him  money,  and  buy  him  somethin'  t'  eat. 
Yuh '11  hev  to  hoe  yer  own  row,  but  ef  yuh  git  in  a  pinch 
and  need  a  friend  call  on  me." 

"Yes,  suh,  thanky,  suh.  I'll  be  glad  to  have  you-all 
as  a  friend,  suh.  But  I  want  to  make  my  own  way." 

"And  I  want  yuh  ter  do  it,  son.  Any  place  what  yer 
git  in  this  life  what  yer  don't  earn  ain't  worth  much 
either  to  them  what  gives  or  them  what  gits.  Yer  depend 
on  yerself,  and  though  yer '11  get  some  hard  jolts  yuh '11 
find  a  place  yuh  fit  in.  Ef  yer  a  square  peg  it'd  bruise 
yuh  some  ter  get  yuh  in  a  round  hole,  and  vicy  versy,  as 
old  'Squire  Lathrop  used  to  say.  You  may  not  find  the 
place  in  life  yuh  belong  in  for  a  long,  long  time,  but  yuh 
keep  goin'.  Any  road  yuh  take  leads  to  success,  if  yer 
doin'  the  best  yer  know  how,  knowin'  all  yuh  kin  1'arn, 
ain't  lookin'  fer  no  admirin'  procession  and  ain't  won- 
derin'  all  the  time  how  much  money  there  is  in  it.  A 
man  nearly  always  loses  who  is  continually  sizin'  up  the 
pot  and  comin'  in  without  lookin'  at  his  hand.  Yuh  got 
to  use  some  jedgment  in  life,  and  yer  own  jedgment  on 
what  yuh  kin  do  er  can't  do  is  better  than  the  other  fel- 
ler's, 'cause  if  yuh  got  common  sense  and  f oiler  yer  own 
jedgment  and  fall  down  yuh '11  wonder  why  and  study  a 
way  ter  make  a  killin'  the  next  time.  But  ef  ye've  taken 
the  other  feller's  jedgment  and  missed  fire  yuh '11  charge 
it  up  ter  the  ammunition,  'stead  o'  layin'  it  ter  yer  own 
ignorance  of  how  to  load  the  gun.  Don't  yuh  be  afraid 
of  nobody.  When  yuh  see  people  worshippin'  some  man 
as  though  God  had  specially  created  him,  and  he  treats 

[83] 


people  as  though  God  made  them  fer  his  special  benefit, 
take  a  second  er  a  third  er  a  fourth  look,  and  yuh'll  see 
he's  cut  hisself  when  he  shaved,  er  his  necktie  ain't  on 
right,  er  he  eats  with  his  knife,  er  does  somethin'  what 
shows  he  ain't  nuthin'  but  human.  Then,  don't  worship 
him.  But  if  he's  right,  admire  him;  if  he's  wrong,  pass 
him  by.  Don't  try  to  copy  nobody.  An  imitation  ain't 
worth  much.  Be  yerself,  boy,  and  then  folks  11  say: 
'There  comes  Clarke  and  a  bunch  of  fellers.'  If  yer  copy- 
in',  jest  imitatin',  nobody  never  sees  yer  come  er  knows 
yer  gone." 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  Bascom. 

"Well,  by  Josh,  yuh  know  I  got  to  runnin'  along  tell 
I  mighty  near  was  preachin'.  Anyhow,  I  like  to  talk  to 
yuh,  son.  Yuh  couldn't  be  a  better  feller  tuh  listen  ef 
yuh  was  paid  fer  it.  I  wasn't  thinkin'  how  young  yuh 
was,  but  I  b'lieve  at  that  yuh  understand  what  I  was 
drivin'  at,  didn't  yuh?" 

"Yes,  suh.  My  grandmother  told  it  to  me,  suh.  She 
said  it  was  all  in  that  verse,  'Fear  not, — fob  ye  shall  reap 
if  you  faint  not.'  " 

"By  Josh,  yuh've  hit  it  exact.  Shake,  son.  I'm  short 
on  Bible  an'  long  on'  sperience.  You're  long  on  Bible 
and  short  on  'sperience.  May  we  both  get  more  of  what 
we're  lackin'." 

The  boy  looked  up  into  the  kindly,  grizzled  face,  and 
instinctively  knew  he  had  a  friend.  The  pressure  of  that 
handclasp  braced  the  boy  to  two  resolutions :  To  be  for- 
ever four-square  to  the  world  and  to  merit  true  friends. 

The  costly  results  of  the  war  were  brought  to  the  at- 
tention of  the  refugees  by  a  stack  of  coffins  on  the  for- 
ward deck  of  the  Kenton.  They  contained  the  remains  of 
officers  who  had  been  killed  in  the  trans-Mississippi  cam- 
paigns, and  whose  bodies  were  being  sent  home  for  burial. 
It  was  a  grewsome  sight  at  best,  while  to  the  negroes  and 
some  of.  the  superstitious  whites  it  proved  a  serious  in- 
terference with  peace  of  mind. 

[84] 


"War  may  be  all  right,"  said  Stone  to  Bascom,  one 
day,  as  he  found  the  boy  contemplating  the  pile  of  cof- 
fins, "but  the  fellers  who  bring  on  the  trouble  are  not 
usually  the  ones  who  reach  an  untimely  end  and  go 
home  to  their  friends  in  a  box.  Yuh  may  be  fightin'  for 
principle,  and  be  as  brave  as  yuh  can,  but  it  hurts  here 
[pointing  to  his  heart]  when  yuh  miss  yer  bunkmate  after 
a  scrimmage  and  go  huntin'  fer  him,  only  to  find  his  life- 
less body.  No  money  can  pay  fer  a  widow's  tears  or  a 
orphan's  sobs  fer  the  man  that  don't  come  back.  I'm 
goin'  home,  but  I've  got  to  tell  Mrs.  Sheffield  'bout  Tom, 
and  I've  got  to  go  and  see  old  Mrs.  Williams  and  put  my 
arms  around  her  neck  and  break  the  news  of  her  only 
son's  death.  She  held  me  on  her  lap  when  I  was  a  baby, 
and  she's  "Aunty"  Williams  tuh  the  hull  town.  I'd 
ruther  go  back  and  fight  some  more  than  do  it,  but  it's 
got  to  be  did.  Some  day  they'll  come  to  believe  that  jest 
killin'  each  other  don't  settle  nothin'.  If  I  hev  a  differ- 
ence with  my  neighbor  they  make  me  go  to  court  and  get 
it  fixed  accordin'  to  law,  but  a  nation  won't  take  the  kind 
of  medicine  it  prescribes  fer  its  people,  and  sets  men  to 
commit  murder  on  one  another  to  prove  who's  right  and 
who's  wrong.  I  ain't  a  blamin'  nobuddy  special,  but  I 
can't  see  why  the  commandment,  'Thou  shalt  not  kill,' 
ain't  jest  as  much  Bible  talk  fer  a  nation  as  'tis  fer  a 
man.  Killin'  has  got  ter  be  so  common  thet  a  stack  of 
filled  coffins  like  that  don't  cause  no  more  talk  than  a  pile 
o'  cordwood.  And  they've  had  so  many  funerals  that  the 
tear-water  o'  the  nation's  nearly  run  dry.  I  can't  help 
feelin'  sorry  for  the  Johnnies.  They're  fightin'  on  their 
own  sile,  but  they  ain't  got  enough  to  eat  even  at  that. 
The  fellers  what  stirred  up  the  muss  ain't  carryin'  the 
muskets  and  fillin'  the  graves — they're  mostly  doin'  their 
fightin'  with  their  mouths,  and  keepin'  their  eyes  on  the 
offices  they're  goin'  ter  hev  when  they  win.  And  the  fel- 
lers in  the  ranks  will  go  home,  those  o'  them  what's  per- 
mitted by  Divine  Providence  ter  git  home,  and  they'll 
go  to  the  polls  and  proudly  cast  their  wad  o'  paper  fer 
the  mouth  patriots. 

[85] 


"What've  the  poor  devils  of  privates  in  the  south  got 
at  stake  in  the  hull  dern  percedin',  anyway?  They  ain't 
got  no  slaves,  and  they  don't  own  no  big  plantations.  If 
they  sh'd  win  they'd  have  less  chance  than  they  did  be- 
fore, 'cause  the  planters  'd  be  like  a  lot  o'  little  kings 
and  these  fellers  what  make  the  common  soldiers  'd  be 
jest  as  poor  as  they  was  before,  and  no  way  ter  git  up. 
If  we  win  and  slavery  is  did  away  with  they'll  start  on 
an  even  footin'  with  everybuddy  else,  and  if  they  wanter 
be  somebuddy  and  hev  their  children  somebuddies  they 
stand  a  show.  Yer  see,  if  we  win  they'll  all  be  poor, 
everybuddy,  and  bein'  poor  together  '11  bring  'em  closer 
ter  one  enuther.  I  ain't  got  no  bitter  feelin's  again  'em. 
It's  like  defendin'  yerself  agin  a  boy  that's  got  stirred 
up  by  the  older  fellers  eggin'  him  on  to  fight  yer.  He 
ain't  got  no  grudge  again  yuh,  and  he  ain't  goin'  ter  git 
nuthin'  if  he  licks  yuh.  Yuh  hev  to  fight  in  self  defense, 
but  yuh  feel  sorry  fer  the  kid  and  when  it's  over  and  yer 
lick  him  if  yuh  treat  him  right  yuh  kin  make  him  yer 
closest  friend.  'Twill  take  him  a  little  time  to  find  out 
that  the  fellers  what  egged  him  on  wasn't  doin'  nuthin' 
fer  him,  and  maybe  he'll  sometime  sleep  under  the  same 
blanket  with  yer  and  help  yer  lick  somebuddy  else.  If 
Old  Glory  wins  I'll  bet  yer  anythin'  these  same  fellers 
what's  fit  fer  the  South  in  this  war  will  f oiler  her  all  the 
rest  o'  their  days,  and  be  jest  as  proud  o'  her  as  we  are 
now.  And  sometime  they'll  come  to  know  that  Abe  Lin- 
coln's their  best  friend  today.  But  the  dern  politicians 
kick  up  such  a  dust  that  a  good  man's  goodness  is  hid  till 
he 's  dead,  if  he  happens  to  get  elected  to  some  place  some- 
buddy  else  wanted.  I  was  fer  Stephen  A.  Douglas  fer 
president,  I  was,  and  I'm  proud  o'  the  way  he's  stood  up 
ter  be  counted  fer  the  Union  since.  He  didn't  go  home 
and  sulk  when  Lincoln  beat  him,  but  went  right  over  and 
took  his  place  'side  Old  Abe,  and  said:  'Here  am  I,  Old 
Man,  ready  to  help. '  Takes  a  man  ter  do  that,  sonny. ' ' 
"My  father  was  foh  Stephen  A.  Douglas,  suh." 
' '  Well,  by  Josh !  I  thought  there  was  some  reason  why 
I  tuck  tuh  yer.  Now  I  know  what  'tis.  Well,  if  yer 

[86] 


father  was  fer  Stephen  A.  Douglas  and  Stephen  A.  Doug- 
las is  fer  Abe  Lincoln  and  the  stars  and  stripes  yuh  ain't 
got  fur  to  go  yerself  to  git  on  our  side  o'  this  difficulty. 
And  I  ain't  goin'  ter  influence  yer  in  the  least.  Jest  be- 
cause we're  takin'  yer  up  north  where  yer '11  be  safe  don't 
make  the  right  er  wrong  o'  the  perceedin'.  Yer  old 
enough  ter  obsarve  and  think  fer  yerself  and  tain't  no 
time  to  criticise  the  political  opinions  of  a  man  when 
he's  yer  guest.  With  yer  gran 'father  in  the  War  o' 
Twelve  and  yer  father  votin'  fer  Douglas  and  yer  own 
self  pertected  by  the  flag  of  the  United  States  I'll  take 
my  chances  on  yer  blood  bein'  right.  I  can't  say  I  blame 
a  man  for  follerin'  his  state,  and  I  s'pose  a  slave  state 
'd  be  broke  in  two  if  she  didn't  jine  the  reb  side.  Poor 
Maryland!  She's  a  slave  state  and  she's  in  the  Union, 
so  she  loses  either  way  the  war  goes." 

And  so  Stone  talked  to  the  boy  all  the  long  days  of  the 
journey,  counseling  and  advising  him,  and  with  his  homely 
philosophy  preparing  the  mind  of  the  boy  for  the  strug- 
gle for  existence  and  advancement.  Bascom  came  to  see 
the  possibility  of  rising  from  poverty  and  humbleness  to 
a  place  of  usefulness  in  the  world.  He  had  plenty  of  time 
to  think,  and  he  laid  a  mental  foundation  of  industry  and 
perseverance. 

The  boat  touched  at  Memphis.  He  beheld  this  South- 
ern gateway  in  the  hands  of  the  Federal  troops.  Its  for- 
tifications held  the  cannon  of  the  Yankees  and  the  gun- 
boats lay  in  the  river  at  her  feet  ready  for  action.  From 
the  staff  of  the  court  house  the  Union  flag  floated,  and 
soldiers  were  everywhere.  At  this  point  the  refugees 
were  transferred  to  another  transport,  together  with  the 
bodies  of  the  soldier  dead,  and  again  convoyed  by  tin- 
clads  made  their  way  up  the  river  to  Cairo,  Illinois,  the 
western  base  of  supplies  of  the  United  States. 

To  the  wondering  eyes  of  the  refugees,  who  little  com- 
prehended the  magnitude  of  the  contest,  Cairo  was  a 
marvel.  Seated  upon  its  hills  at  the  confluence  of  the 
Ohio  and  Mississippi  Rivers,  with  its  fortifications  brist- 
ling with  cannon,  it  presented  an  extremely  imposing  ap- 

[87] 


pearance.  River  craft  of  all  descriptions,  gunboats,  trans- 
ports, big  passenger  steamers,  and  a  motley  collection  of 
smaller  boats  were  lying  at  the  landings  or  running  to 
and  fro  and  up  and  down.  Hurrying  trucks  were  carry- 
ing stores  from  the  great  warehouses  to  the  waiting  lower 
decks  of  the  vessels  for  shipment  to  the  battling  hordes  in 
the  south.  Soldiers  were  filing  on  board  the  transports 
for  conveyance  to  the  front  to  take  their  part  in  the  great 
struggle.  Horses  for  the  officers  and  the  cavalry  crossed 
the  gang  planks.  Cannon  and  caissons  for  the  batteries 
rumbled  grimly  along  the  dock  and  into  places  on  the 
boats,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  anxiously  waiting 
the  time  to  thunder  destruction.  Mortars  tilted  their 
wide-gaping  mouths  skyward  as  they  were  hauled  on 
board  and  seemed  to  give  a  savage  grimace  as  they  dis- 
appeared from  view.  Huge  boxes  of  ammunition  of  all 
kinds,  together  with  small  arms  of  every  description  and 
a  miscellanous  assortment  of  camp  equipment  were  piled 
high  on  the  transports.  Altogether  it  was  a  continuous 
panorama  of  bustle  and  excitement. 

The  landing  of  the  refugees  and  the  soldiers,  and  the 
transfer  of  the  great  pile  of  coffins  to  the  landing,  was 
scarcely  noticed,  although  to  both  classes  of  the  living 
it  was  a  momentous  occasion.  The  soldiers  were  going 
home  to  take  up  again  the  usual  avocations  of  life  and 
contend  with  the  world  for  a  place,  back  where  they  were 
known;  the  non-combatants  were  going  into  an  unknown 
land,  most  of  them  in  wretched  poverty,  and  were  won- 
dering what  the  future  held  in  store  for  them.  Cheered, 
however,  by  the  loyal  declarations  of  hospitality  made  by 
the  returning  soldiers,  the  refugees  felt  that  in  these  men, 
at  least,  they  had  friends  who  would  stand  sponser  for 
them  until  they  could  get  a  foothold  among  the  strangers. 

It  was  a  proud  time  for  Old  Man  Smith.  He  had  the 
transportation  and  subsistence  order  for  twenty.  With 
great  dignity  he  headed  the  procession  and  ordered  its 
"downsittings  and  uprisings."  So  fearful  were  most  of 
them  of  losing  him  and  thus  being  without  the  proper  cre- 
dentials that  they  stuck  closer  than  children  around  the 

[88] 


"'lasses  candy  wagon"  at  the  county  fair.  What  few 
personal  belongings  they  had  they  carried  around  with 
them  wherever  they  moved,  hence  the  sight  presented  by 
them,  while  interesting,  was  not  especially  calculated  to 
inspire  admiring  comments.  For  ten  days  they  had  been 
crowded  together  on  the  transports,  the  decks  of  which 
had  evidently  not  been  cleaned  since  the  war  began. 

Ragged,  dirty  and  forlorn  indeed  they  were,  and  cov- 
ered with  vermin  with  which  the  transports  were  infested. 
There  had  been  no  opportunity  to  properly  care  for  them- 
selves. They  were  dejected  and  homesick,  though  they 
realized  they  were  homeless.  Bascom,  with  his  two  gar- 
ments and  old  brimless  army  cap,  was  as  well  equipped 
so  far  as  raiment  was  concerned  as  any  of  the  others. 
Some  of  the  people  at  least  were  from  the  upper  walks 
of  life  and  felt  their  present  pitiable  condition.  They 
sought  to  keep  away  from  the  gaze  of  the  populace.  But 
the  residents  of  Cairo  had  evidently  had  their  curiosity 
satiated  by  similar  delegations  and  there  was  neither  ridi- 
cule nor  rudeness  on  their  part  during  the  short  time  the 
refugees  were  in  the  city. 

Young  Clarke  and  the  Smith  boys  had  managed  to  get 
out  of  sight  for  a  time  and  had  regaled  themselves  with 
a  swim  in  the  Ohio,  and  narrowly  escaped  a  thrashing  at 
the  hands  of  the  self-constituted  leader  of  the  expedition 
for  being  "absent  without  leave."  But  he  was  too  busily 
engaged  in  "bossing"  his  flock  at  the  time,  and  later  it 
escaped  his  memory.  The  boys,  refreshed  and  clean, 
would  not  have  begrudged  a  few  whacks  just  to  have  had 
the  opportunity  to  sport  in  the  water.  While  disrobed 
Bascom  had  taken  the  time  to  go  over  his  shirt  and  trou- 
sers and  rid  them  as  best  he  could  of  the  clinging  vermin. 
Naturally  cleanly  and  with  a  training  that  led  him  to 
look  upon  such  a  condition  as  a  disgrace,  he  scrubbed, 
scoured  and  picked  until  he  was  comparatively  free  from 
the  repulsive  parasites.  Jim  Stone,  who  had  come  across 
him  while  thus  engaged,  sagely  remarked: 

"If  I  hadn't  aknowed  yer  story,  son,  I'd  aknowed  yer 
was  brung  up  right  by  yer  anxiety  to  chase  graybacks. 

[89] 


Those  fellers '11  make  a  chap  show  his  ancestry  and  imme- 
jit  fambly  quicker 'n  anythin'  else  in  the  world.  If  a 
feller  come  up  to  me  and  I  really  and  truly  wanted  to 
know  whether  all  the  airs  he  was  puttin'  on  was  genooine 
er  not  I'd  sick  a  grayback  on  him.  If  he  didn't  color  up 
and  look  ashamed,  and  hunt  for  a  quiet  place  where  he 
could  retire  fr'm  public  gaze  fer  a  time,  I'd  know  he  was 
a  sham.  Yer'll  find  er  lot  o'  human  vermin  adurin'  yer 
life  and  the  human  grayback 's  some  schemer.  Yer  got 
ter  keep  huntin',  same's  yer  mother  used  to  go  through 
yer  hair  with  a  fine  tooth  comb  erbout  once  in  so  often. 
Sometimes  yer '11  git  in  er  place  where  ye  can't  help  bein' 
bit  by  'em,  like  you've  been  on  those  transports.  No 
matter  how  clean  yer  was  kept  yer  mother  used  to  ex- 
amine every  pull  of  the  fine  tooth  comb,  and  maybe  some- 
times, not  orfen,  yer'd  see  her  stop,  look  close,  and  ye'd 
hear  a  little  'crack'  like  that.  She'd  say:  'My!  My!' 
and  then  she'd  pretty  near  dig  yer  scalp  orf.  Ever  been 
there?  Yes,  I  thought  so.  Well,  sonny,  jest  remember: 
The  dirtier  yer  think,  act  er  talk  the  more  o'  the  human 
graybacks  yer '11  hev  erbout  ye.  If  yer  think  right,  talk 
right  and  act  right  they  won't  hurt  ye  much,  though  once 
in  erwhile  they'll  git  er  whack  at  yer  even  then.  I  got 
more  respect  fer  a  'squito  then  I  has  fer  the  grayback, 
human  er  otherwise.  The  'squito  sings  yer  a  little  song 
and  tells  yer  he's  comin'  ter  live  off  yer,  and  if  yer  don't 
want  him  yer '11  whack  at  him,  and  he'll  go  'way  cussin' 
in  a  high  key.  But  a  grayback  waits  till  yer  ain't  alookin', 
then  he  finds  a  little  dirt  in  yer  life  thet  ye  've  overlooked, 
and  perceeds  ter  make  himself  ter  hum.  If  yer  don't  oust 
him  quick  he'll  wig-wag  ter  all  the  rest  o'  the  tribe,  and 
before  yer  know  it  'twill  take  a  thunderin'  lot  of  cleanin' 
ter  red  yerself  of  'em.  'Tain't  no  disgrace  ter  have  a 
human  grayback  light  on  yer  and  snuggle  up  ter  yuh, 
but  it's  a  sign  yer  wrong  if  he  finds  the  quarters  com- 
f 'table.  Yuh  ain't  got  no  easy  time  ahead  o'  yuh,  boy, 
and  yer  got  ter  watch  out  er  the  graybacks  '11  get  yuh. 
But  yuh  jest  think  all'er  time  about  how  yer  mother  and 
father  and  grandmother  'd  hev  yer  do,  and  yer '11  come 
through  0.  K." 

[90] 


MOTHER  NOBLES' 


2H1  TENANT  HOTJ^E,    ON  NOBLE 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Three  miles  southwest  of  Indianapolis,  on  the  Madison 
pike  running  alongside  the  J.  M.  &  I.  branch  of  the  Penn- 
sylvania railroad,  is  a  beautiful  place  containing  several 
hundred  acres.  This  was  the  home  of  Lazarus  Noble,  a 
good  man.  This  is  all  the  description  necessary  to  bring 
to  mind  the  qualifications  he  possessed.  He  belonged  to 
the  class  of  genuine  people,  whose  influence  is  far- 
reaching,  and  who,  without  ostentation,  move  the  world 
up  toward  better  conditions.  Well  fitted  to  be  his  help- 
meet was  his  wife,  Harriet.  Her  sweet,  tender,  sympa- 
thetic nature  made  the  complement  to  her  husband's  gen- 
erous impulses,  and  together  they  lightened  more  than  one 
burdened  soul  and  smoothed  pathways  that  otherwise 
would  have  been  too  rough  and  hard  for  weary  feet. 
Anything  in  the  line  of  human  suffering  appealed  directly 
to  them  both,  and  they  knew  no  rest  until  so  far  as  they 
were  able  the  suffering  was  alleviated. 

Mr.  Noble  was  a  strong  supporter  of  the  Union  at  a  time 
when  strong,  courageous  men  were  needed  to  stem  the 
tide  of  disloyalty  which  cropped  out  here  and  there  in 
Indiana.  Notwithstanding  the  strict  loyalty  of  the  state 
to  the  Federal  government,  there  was  an  undercurrent  of 
sympathy  with  those  who  were  fighting  against  its  integ- 
rity. And  here,  as  well  as  elswhere,  were  those  who,  by 
every  device  or  process  known  to  their  poisoned  minds, 
were  giving  aid  and  comfort  to  the  enemies  of  their  coun- 
try while  too  cowardly  to  go  south  and  join  those  who 
were  making  an  honest  fight  in  the  open  in  support  of 
principles  which  they  believed  to  be  right.  Men  like  Laz- 
arus Noble,  whose  firm,  unflinching  patriotism  held  like 
a  rock  when  there  was  a  tendency  on  the  part  of  any  of 
the  community  to  drift  away  from  absolute,  unques- 
tioned and  unquestioning  loyalty,  such  men  shaped  the 

[91] 


sentiment  and  kept  the  great  state  tnie  to  the  line  of  de- 

\otion  to  the  Union. 

His  hm.-id  vision  swept  bcvond  the  earpings  of  the 
critics  vyho  mistook  their  biting  words  of  sarcasm,  in  dis- 
cussing  the  conduct  of  the  war.  for  weighty  Analyses  of 
the  situation.  He  saw  the  pro  at  problems  to  be  soKed. 
the  neeessilv  for  ;i  Cl.'ilit  !.:i:id  and  hc:;\v  U01II  to  f\  riTc 
acain  1!.;  :.,:.-n  fracment.s  of  the  republic  into  a  DO- 
hesivc  whole.  The  Titian  task  ami  its  means  of  aecom- 
plishment  were  too  large  for  the  little  minds  to  compre- 
hend. And  the  little  minds,  it  \\as.  that  > •  '  : .-..:..  .-.  > 
wagging  and  their  hands  writing  those  things  which  in- 
fluenced other  little  minds  and  stayed  a  more  speedy  end 
to  the  conflict.  Hence,  it  was  W«U  that  snch  sturdy  men 
a.s  IjMMnH  Koble  lived.  >  :  •  .  :•.;->  ning  and  calm  judg- 
ment nci,-.-iii\  cil  the  effect  nf  the  mouthings  of  the  frot.h- 

>pc\\crs.    and    the    Stat<     held    !:.-' 

Wliel)   11    became   fajOWn   that    a    baiitl   of  r«-filireeS.   forced 

from  their  homes  by  reason  of  their  allegiance  to  the 
Union,  had  landed  in  Indianapolis  and  needed  help,  the 
Nohle  famih  \v  as  amonc  the  first  to  offer  asSlStaQOe.  It 

was  com  eutt.intr  time  and  help  was  scarce,  so  thoroughly 

had  the  \\ar  drained  the  country  of  a  hie  -bodied  men,  N«*T 
the  Noble  nuinsion  aiid  on  :.  part  ol  th«  estate  \v..-  .. 
frame  dwelling  house.  At  the  instance  of  Mr.  Noble, 
three  families,  including  Smith  and  his  rel.inue.  went  U> 
live  in  tins  tenant  house,  \\hiie  all  in  the  parlv  \v  ho  rould 
\\ield  corn- cutters  \\ent  into  the  fields  to  wt»rk.  Bascom 
\H.-IS  among  the  number.  \Vhilc  not  presuming  to  T»c*te 
.issumed  position  as  overseer  of  the  party  Old  Man 
Smith  himself  worked  with  the  rest.  So  long  had  they 
IM  t  n  confined  on  the  transports  and  trains  that  they  all 
welcomed  activity. 

The  jug  of  water,  which  had  been  taken  to  the  field, 
having  been  exhausted.  Hascom  was  sent  to  the  big  brick 
house  to  replenish  it.  While  he  was  drawing  the  water, 
Mrs.  Noble  came  out  to  him.  She  could  not  help  smiling 
at  t.he  nondescript,  figure  he  cut  in  his  ragged  homespun 
trousers  held  «p  by  to\v  •-  -  .1  spenders,  and  his  peak- 


less  soldier  cap.  But  his  apparent  destitution  appealed 
to  her  sympathetic  heart.  He  did  not  see  her  at  first,  but 
when  she  spoke  he  stopped  short,  turned  around  and  in- 
stantly grabbed  off  his  cap  with  an  inborn  courtesy  that 
touched  her  with  its  genuineness. 

"How  are  your  folks  getting  along,  my  boy?"  she 
asked. 

"I  ain't  got  any  folks  heah,  ma'am,"  he  answered. 

Surprised,  she  said: 

' '  Why,  aren  't  these  Smiths  your  folks  ?  You  came  with 
them,  didn't  you?" 

"I'm  with  'em,  ma'am,  but  I'm  not  of  'em.  I'm  a 
Clarke,  ma'am." 

"But  where  are  your  father  and  mother,  boy?" 

"Both  of  'em  air  dead,  ma'am." 

The  eyes  of  the  good  woman  filled  with  tears  as  she 
drew  from  the  lad  his  personal  history,  and  he  told  of  the 
sisters  back  in  Arkansas  who  didn't  know  where  he  was, 
of  the  happy  home  now  broken  and  the  poverty  which 
had  come  to  be  his  lot.  Her  heart  warmed  to  him.  She 
said: 

"Dear  me!  You've  certainly  had  your  share  of  trouble 
for  the  short  span  of  your  life.  Let  us  hope  there  are 
better  days  ahead." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  tousled  head  and  drew  him 
to  her,  telling  about  her  own  boys,  now  south  fighting  for 
the  Union,  and  how  proud  she  was  of  them.  She  told  him 
how  glad  she  was  that  she  could  do  something  to  help  him. 

"But  my  folks  is  Southe 'ne 'hs,  and  my  brother  is  in 
the  Confederate  army  now,  fightin'  you-all,"  said  Bas- 
com,  as  if  he  had  no  right  even  to  the  kindness  of  Mrs. 
Noble,  and  especially  if  her  boys  were  fighting  on  the 
other  side. 

"What  difference  does  that  make?  To  me  you  aren't 
a  Southerner  or  a  Northerner,  but  just  a  poor  little  lone- 
some boy  and  I'm  going  to  do  by  you  as  I  know  your 
angel  mother  would  have  done  by  my  boys  if  the  posi- 
tions were  reversed.  Come  with  me." 

He  went  with  her  into  the  big  house.  There  she  took 

[93] 


him  in  the  kitchen,  and  scrubbed  him  until  he  shone  in  his 
freshness.  Then  she  rigged  him  out  in  a  suit  of  clothes 
belonging  to  one  of  her  own  boys,  gave  him  a  big  slice 
of  hot  mince  pie,  filled  his  jug  with  water  and  sent  him 
back  to  the  field. 

Smith  saw  him  coming  and  started  toward  him,  evi- 
dently with  the  intention  of  punishing  him  for  being  gone 
so  long,  but  he  stopped  short  and  stared  in  amazement 
as  he  beheld  the  transformation  from  the  ragged,  dis- 
consolate boy  who  left  the  field  to  the  bright,  clean,  well 
clothed  youngster  who  returned. 

"Whah'd  you-all  git  them  close?"  he  demanded. 

"The  lady  at  the  big  house  give  'em  to  me,"  answered 
Bascom. 

There  was  an  instant's  pause  during  which  the  boy 
waited  for  the  usual  pounding  which  Smith  seemed  to 
rejoice  in  giving  him.  But  to  his  surprise  the  old  man 
gave  a  grunt  which  might  be  interpreted  to  mean  any- 
thing, grabbed  the  jug  and  turned  back  to  his  work.  He 
was  cunning  enough  to  know  that  if  the  boy  had  found 
favor  at  the  big  house  anything  which  might  be  done  to 
him  would  probably  militate  against  Smith  himself  in 
his  relation  to  the  Nobles. 

This  little  touch  of  human  kindness,  at  a  time  when  the 
world  was  dark  and  the  way  uncertain,  was  just  the  thing 
needed  to  make  him  forget  his  environment,  rise  above  it 
in  spirit,  and  determine  to  merit  the  friendship  of  this 
good  woman.  She  did  not  realize  it  until  he  told  her  of 
it  long  afterwards,  but  she  did  as  much  by  this  one  act 
to  inspire  him  with  courage  and  patience  to  meet  the 
future  as  was  done  by  any  person  in  the  world.  He  felt 
that  as  yet  he  was  helpless  in  the  hands  of  the  Smiths 
and  he  submitted  to  the  beatings  and  harsh  words  of  the 
old  man  because  he  didn't  know  where  to  go  if  he  left. 
He  was  afraid  that  wherever  he  did  go  Smith  would  fol- 
low, claim  him  and  make  his  life  even  more  intolerable 
than  it  was  before.  He  tried  to  bear  it  all  with  fortitude, 
and  seemed  to  grow  stronger  both  mentally  and  physi- 
cally, despite  the  handicap  of  his  surroundings. 

[94] 


There  was  plenty  of  work,  and  the  Smith  family  went 
from  one  job  to  another,  the  recompense  for  all  labor 
going  into  the  pockets  of  the  old  man.  While  he  had 
come  north  as  a  Union  refugee,  he  had  not  been  long  in 
his  new  home  before  his  tongue  ran  a  little  too  freely, 
and  left  room  for  suspicion  that  his  sympathies  and  hopes 
were  with  the  south.  This  suspicion  grew  apace,  and 
was  fed  by  his  indiscreet  and  boastful  utterances. 

The  kindness  of  the  Yankees  to  Bascom  seemed  to  give 
him  especial  cause  for  brutality.  At  one  time  he  took 
hickory  withes,  roasted  them  over  a  fire  to  toughen  them, 
and  flogged  him  with  them  until  the  boy's  back  was  cov- 
ered with  great  welts.  This  came  to  the  ears  of  some  of 
the  neighbors  and  they  positively  declared  to  Smith 
through  a  delegation  sent  for  that  purpose  that  any  fur- 
ther acts  of  that  kind  on  his  part  would  result  in  imme- 
diate and  summary  punishment  at  the  hands  of  the  men 
in  the  neighborhood.  Though  his  tongue  continued  its 
lashings,  that  was  the  last  time  he  laid  hands  on  the  child 
while  in  that  neighborhood. 

Disloyal  to  his  own  people  in  the  South,  he  now  demon- 
strated his  disloyalty  to  the  people  who  had  befriended 
him.  He  moved  from  one  community  to  another  in  order 
to  escape  the  just  results  of  his  words  and  deeds.  His 
family,  who  had  lived  in  almost  constant  fear  of  his 
violent  temper,  and  who  shared  their  home  with  Bascom, 
came  to  give  the  boy  their  friendship,  and  sympathise 
with  him  in  their  way,  though  scarcely  daring  to  manifest 
any  unusual  interest  in  him  for  fear  of  the  consequences 
to  themselves.  The  oldest  girl,  who  was  the  housekeeper, 
did  what  she  could  to  make  the  life  bearable.  The  chil- 
dren imbibed  the  spirit  of  the  times,  and  were  not  inter- 
ested to  any  great  degree  in  the  war  or  its  problems. 
They  were  anxious  about  the  quantity  of  provisions  which 
might  come  their  way. 

They  had  no  philosophy  of  life  and  were  fired  by  no 
great  ambitions.  They  belonged  to  the  class  of  people 
who  were  satisfied  and  contented  if  the  fates  decreed  that 
they  should  have  enough  to  eat,  something  to  wear  and  a 

[95] 


place  to  stay.  "Whether  or  not  they  had  ever  heard  of 
the  scriptural  injunction,  "Take  no  thought  of  the  mor- 
row," they  obeyed  it  to  the  letter.  Their  life  in  Arkansas 
had  been  spent  largely  in  the  open,  and  so,  outside  of 
dodging  the  blows  of  the  father,  or  keeping  out  of  his 
way  as  long  as  possible  when  he  manifested  a  disposition 
to  use  the  rod  of  discipline,  they  were  care-free  and  with- 
out sense  of  responsibility. 

Bascom  began  to  thirst  for  an  education,  for  a  greater 
knowledge  than  his  situation  was  liable  to  yield  him.  Out- 
side of  what  his  good  grandmother  had  taught  him  and 
the  few  weeks  in  the  private  school  which  were  inter- 
rupted by  the  coming  of  the  war,  he  had  had  no  oppor- 
tunity to  study.  He  read  everything  he  could  and  ab- 
sorbed the  word  and  thought,  but  had  no  one  to  direct 
his  energies  along  the  line  of  systematic  training.  He 
seemed  hedged  in  by  an  environment  from  which  he  was 
too  young  to  break  forth.  Oftimes  he  was  discouraged 
and  tempted  to  drift  with  the  rest,  but  the  early  lessons 
of  industry  and  determination  would  assert  themselves, 
and  he  highly  resolved  to  conquer  and  "remember  that 
he  was  a  Clarke,"  born  to  hold  a  higher  place  in  life 
than  a  drifter  with  the  stream. 

In  "corn-shucking"  time  he  learned  to  deftly  slip  the 
golden  ear  from  its  envelope  by  the  aid  of  a  hickory  peg. 
There  came  to  him  visions  of  the  ebony  and  ivory  pegs 
described  by  the  soldier  friend,  but  he  soon  realized  that 
this  was  a  fairy  story  concocted  for  his  entertainment, 
and  laughed  to  himself.  But  he  was  an  expert  with  the 
little  instrument  and,  though  his  fingers  were  stiffened  by 
the  frosty  atmosphere  at  times,  he  kept  pace  with  the 
older  ones  in  the  task.  Then,  too,  he  was  to  go  to  school 
that  winter,  and  the  thought  of  it  made  him  happy,  for 
he  would  have  a  chance  to  learn  something  and  equip 
himself  for  a  bright  future.  Notwithstanding  his  depriva- 
tions and  the  hardships  of  his  life  under  the  domineering, 
tyrannical  Smith,  he  never  loi»t  his  courage  or  his  ambi- 
tion. Smith  had  promised  that  the  children  should  go  to 
school  during  the  winter.  Illiterate  himself,  he  was  al- 

[96] 


ways  going  to  educate  his  family.  Clarke  little  realized 
that  the  children  were  used  to  this  promise  and  its  oft- 
repeated  breaking.  He  took  the  old  man  at  his  word, 
and  anticipated  the  winter  at  school  with  great  joy. 

When  school  was  "took  up"  in  the  little  red  school- 
house  near  the  Noble  farm,  a  delegation  from  the  Smith 
household  was  on  hand.  The  children  were  armed  with 
an  assortment  of  school  books,  evidently  bought  cheap  at 
some  secondhand  store,  or  begged  from  the  discard  of  old 
educational  books  in  people's  houses  round  about.  Bas- 
com  drew  a  copy  of  Fox's  Arithmetic,  so  old  that  it  was 
unknown  in  Indiana,  and  an  old  bluebook  speller  of  an 
obsolete  brand.  With  these  books  and  five  sheets  of 
foolscap  paper  he  marched  proudly  to  the  schoolhouse  to 
begin  work  when  the  term  opened.  The  teacher  looked 
at  the  relics  of  long-gone  generations  in  the  school  and 
indited  a  polite  note  to  the  head  of  the  Smiths,  containing 
a  list  of  the  books  necessary  for  each.  This  was  carried 
home  by  one  of  the  older  children. 

Upon  being  made  aware  of  its  contents,  the  old  man 
went  into  a  rage  and  started  immediately  for  the  house 
of  the  school  director  living  near.  Here  he  exploded  a 
torpedo  or  two  of  expletives  intended  to  convince  the 
man  of  the  greatness  of  Smith,  and  his  right  to  have  his 
children  educated  with  whatever  books  he  desired  to 
equip  them.  The  director  patiently  tried  to  explain  to 
his  visitor  the  necessity  of  having  uniform  text-books, 
but  Smith  scarcely  listened,  and,  his  importance  not  being 
conceded,  stalked  home  and  took  his  children  out  of 
school  as  a  punishment  to  the  community.  The  commu- 
nity survived  the  shock  but  the  Smith  family  once  more 
saw  the  winter  pass  without  an  opportunity  to  go  to 
school. 

To  Clarke  this  was  a  keen  disappointment,  for  now 
that  this  door  of  knowledge  was  closed  to  him  he  saw  no 
other  opened  and  thus  the  way  to  an  education  seemed 
barred  to  him.  With  no  help  he  took  his  odd  times  and 
tried  to  master  the  intricacies  of  the  Fox's  arithmetic, 
and  worked  at  the  words  in  the  old  speller  until  he  could 
I V  [97] 


nearly  spell  them  backwards,  but  it  was  uphill  work  and 
he  had  no  encouragement.  Besides,  the  physical  labor 
demanded  of  him  by  Smith  was  such  as  to  make  him  too 
weary  to  spend  much  time  with  his  books.  More  than 
once  he  fell  asleep  with  his  head  in  the  arithmetic  or 
speller,  as,  in  the  evening,  after  a  hard  day's  work,  he 
tried  to  study. 

Smith  had  taken  a  contract  to  cut  cordwood  for  Mr. 
Noble,  so  when  the  fiasco  of  sending  the  family  to  school 
was  over  he  turned  the  boys  loose  in  the  woods  at  this 
work.  Thus,  Bascom,  instead  of  getting  an  education  or 
a  start  in  that  direction,  spent  the  winter  pulling  one  end 
of  a  cross-cut  saw,  cutting  logs  into  four-foot  lengths  and 
swinging  a  "nigger  maul"  splitting  them  into  proper  size. 

If  discipline  to  meet  discouragements,  rebuffs  and  ap- 
parent insurmountable  barriers  were  what  was  needed  to 
develop  his  physical  and  moral  strength  he  was  certainly 
getting  all  that  was  necessary.  A  less  determined  nature 
would  have  concluded  that  the  tide  of  misfortune  was 
too  strong  to  be  stemmed  and  might  have  given  up.  On 
the  contrary,  the  more  adversity  sought  to  stifle  his  am- 
bitions the  more  his  buoyant  nature  asserted  itself.  No 
Clarke  should  be  crushed  by  either  poverty  or  oppression. 
So  he  endured,  worked,  suffered  and  waited. 

As  the  cold  weather  approached  the  question  of  shoes 
for  the  barefooted  orphan  began  to  assert  itself.  He  had 
no  money,  and  there  seemed  little  prospect  of  obtaining 
any,  as  the  waiting  hand  of  his  self-appointed  guardian 
was  always  interposed  between  the  boy's  labor  and  the 
wages  received  therefor. 

While  in  Indianapolis  one  day,  when  the  frosty  at- 
mosphere bit  his  toes,  he  determined  to  pledge  his  own 
credit  for  leather  enough  to  make  him  a  pair  of  shoes. 
Going  into  the  place  of  business  of  Joseph  K.  Sharpe,  he 
sought  out  the  proprietor. 

"Will  yuh  trust  me  foh  leather  enough  foh  a  pair  of 
shoes,  suh?"  he  asked. 

Sharpe  looked  him  over  for  a  full  minute,  but  the  boy 
stood  the  scrutiny  unflinchingly. 

[98] 


"Haven't  you  any  money,  boy?"  he  asked. 

"No,  suh." 

Then  followed  a  series  of  questions  which  brought  out 
the  story  of  the  events  which  led  up  to  his  plight.  The 
heart  of  the  man  was  touched. 

"I'll  give  you  the  leather,  son." 

"If  you  please,  suh,  I  don't  want  it  thataway.  I'll  pay 
foh  it  ef  you'll  trust  me." 

"I  like  that  spirit,  son,  and  you  can  have  the  leather 
and  pay  me  when  you  can.  I'd  gladly  give  it  to  you, 
but  your  independence  shall  be  respected.  To  whom  shall 
I  charge  it?" 

"To  Bascom  B.  Clarke,  suh." 

The  leather  was  given  him  and  the  charge  gravely 
made  on  the  book.  Soon  he  was  the  proud  possessor  of 
a  pair  of  shoes  against  the  coming  of  winter.  The  debt 
was  afterwards  paid,  though  it  meant  much  sacrifice  and 
self-denial  on  the  part  of  the  lad. 

By  the  spring  of  1865  Smith  found  things  so  warm  for 
him  in  the  Noble  neighborhood  that  he  concluded  it 
was  time  to  move.  His  treatment  of  the  little  orphan 
boy  in  his  custody  and  his  anti-Union  talk  had  made  him 
exceedingly  unpopular.  He  thought  it  was  best  to  leave 
for  new  fields  before  the  threats  of  violence  which  were 
freely  made  were  put  into  effect.  Conscious  of  having 
been  ungrateful  to  the  people  who  had  befriended  him, 
and  to  the  government  which  had  rescued  him  from  prob- 
able death,  he  concluded  that  just  at  that  juncture  a 
change  of  scene  to  where  he  was  not  known  would  be 
preferable. 

So,  with  the  family  and  young  Clarke,  not  forgetting 
the  hound  dog,  "Bull,"  a  most  important  adjunct  of  the 
house,  he  migrated.  The  atmosphere  of  Clark's  Hill, 
where  he  first  stopped,  not  proving  to  his  liking,  he  again 
pulled  up  stakes  and  lighted  on  a  small  farm  a  few  miles 
from  Colfax,  on  the  banks  of  Potato  Creek.  Here  the 
treatment  of  Bascom  became  so  notoriously  brutal  that 
his  emancipation  was  accomplished  through  the  efforts 
of  the  indignant  people  of  the  neighborhood,  led  by  Cap- 

[99] 


tain  Milton  B.  Waugh.  Captain  Waugh  was  the  head  of 
the  "Home  Guards,"  and  a  braver,  truer  man  never  lived. 
It  was  here,  at  last,  that  the  boy  found  the  leashes  un- 
loosed, and,  freed  from  the  rule  of  Smith,  found  the  door 
of  hope  open. 


[100] 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Captain  Waugh  had  been  a  boy  himself  and  understood 
them,  while  his  good  wife,  country  born  and  bred,  with 
the  freedom  of  action  which  such  a  life  gives,  was  just 
the  woman  to  influence  the  life  of  the  youngster  who 
thus  had  been  placed  by  the  Almighty  in  their  hands. 
Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  the  Captain  was  allied  with 
that  devoted  band  of  men  who  were  holding  the  line  of 
loyalty  at  home  and  counteracting  the  influence  of  the 
Knights  of  the  Golden  Circle,  or  "Copperheads,"  who 
were  lending  aid  to  the  South  in  every  way  possible,  and 
notwithstanding  the  bitterness  of  the  times,  Captain 
Waugh  took  the  little  Southern  boy  into  his  home  and 
never  by  word  or  look  attempted  to  proselyte  the  lad  from 
fidelity  to  his  land  and  his  people.  It  was  impossible, 
however,  that  the  refugee  should  not  hear  the  discussion 
of  the  causes  and  conditions  of  the  war  and  its  progress, 
and  the  probable  results. 

He  had  heard  the  Yankees  cursed  and  reviled  as  cruel 
monsters  who  would  grind  the  heads  of  the  Southerners 
into  atoms  if  they  could,  and  yet  here  he  was  being  fed, 
clothed  and  cared  for  by  one  whose  heart  was  wrapped 
up  in  the  cause  of  the  Union.  He  was  not  despised  and 
kicked  and  cuffed  about,  but  sat  at  the  same  board  and 
was  made  one  of  the  family.  Mrs.  Waugh  mothered 
him  and  with  considerate  kindness  made  up  to  him  in  a 
large  degree  for  the  hardness  of  the  past.  His  worn  and 
frayed  garments  were  thrown  away  and  a  new  suit  of 
"store  clothes"  were  bought  for  him.  And  with  the  old 
clothes  went  the  last  of  his  old  life.  Instead  of  repres- 
sion and  oppression  there  came  the  opportunity  to  par- 
ticipate in  the  doings  of  the  community  and  to  give  ex- 
pression to  those  things  which  dominate  a  boy's  mind. 

It  took  him  a  little  while  to  find  that  the  shackles  of 

[101] 


Smith's  bondage  were  no  longer  upon  him,  but  the  real- 
ization asserted  itself  finally  and  he  had  two  years  of 
boyhood  on  the  farm.  To  be  sure,  he  worked  hard,  for 
that  was  the  life  of  a  farmer  boy  in  those  days.  Called 
at  four  or  five  o  'clock  in  the  morning,  while  the  stars  were 
yet  shining,  he  fed,  curried  and  harnessed  his  team,  threw 
the  feed  to  the  hogs  and  then  was  ready  to  answer  the 
breakfast  bell :  not  the  electric  buzzer  attached  to  the 
dining-room  table,  but  the  big  farm  bell  mounted  on  the 
milk-house.  To  this  add  the  milking  of  two  or  three 
cows,  the  getting  of  the  wood  for  the  household,  and  the 
mending  of  machinery  and  harnesses,  and  you  have  the 
"chores"  of  every  morning  and  evening.  It  meant  a  long 
day  which  seldom  ended  before  dark.  Yet,  with  it  all 
came  a  feeling  of  independence,  a  knowledge  of  ability 
to  do,  which  were  to  stand  him  in  good  stead  in  the  years 
to  come. 

He  became  one  of  the  boys  of  the  neighborhood,  and  a 
favorite  among  the  other  lads,  a  leader  in  many  ways, 
especially  in  mischief.  He  had  an  inborn  sense  of  honor 
and  integrity  and  his  trustworthiness  was  demonstrated 
on  more  than  one  occasion.  Probably  nothing  that  the 
good  Captain  and  his  wife  could  have  done  would  have 
so  developed  and  broadened  his  life  as  the  implicit  trust 
they  reposed  in  him.  There  was  never  the  least  sugges- 
tion that  they  did  not  absolutely  believe  in  his  integrity 
and  truthfulness.  From  their  treatment  of  him  no  one 
could  have  judged  that  he  was  not  their  own  boy.  Yet 
the  older  people  of  the  neighborhood,  knowing  his  com- 
ing into  their  midst  as  a  waif,  and  unconsciously  mark- 
ing him  as  one  who  had  no  history  or  ancestry,  sometimes 
shook  their  heads  at  the  possibility  of  his  ever  amounting 
to  anything. 

Mrs.  Waugh  insisted  that  he  have  the  privileges  of  the 
school  during  the  winter  months  while  he  was  with  them, 
and  the  little  schoolhouse  over  by  Bethel  church  now 
called  him,  provided,  however,  with  the  books  required. 
He  made  the  most  of  his  time  there  during  the  two  win- 
ers  he  was  at  the  Waugh  farm.  But  at  best  he  could  only 

U02J 


obtain  the  most  rudimentary  familiarity  with  learning 
in  so  short  a  time. 

An  oyster  supper  at  Captain  Waugh's  one  winter's  even- 
ing had  as  much  to  do  with  the  future  of  Baseom  as  any 
other  one  thing,  though  at  the  time  he  did  not  realize  it. 
These  parties  were  great  occasions.  The  young  people 
came  from  far  and  near,  and  a  night  of  merriment  was 
sure  to  result.  The  old  fashioned  country  games  were 
played.  It  was  Clarke's  first  experience  at  an  entertain- 
ment of  this  kind,  and  he  had  not  yet  become  sufficiently 
acquainted  in  the  community  to  particpate.  So  he  sat 
watching  the  proceedings  with  wistful  eyes,  in  them  but 
not  of  them.  Suddenly  a  new  game  was  proposed,  and 
the  girls  were  given  the  choice  of  partners. 

Baseom  had  no  thought  except  to  be  counted  out  on  this, 
but  to  his  surprise  a  vivacious  miss  who  had  been  the 
life  of  the  evening,  and  whose  rollicking  laughter  was 
infectious,  called  out : 

"I  want  that  little  fellow  over  in  the  corner." 

She  made  a  dive,  and  before  he  could  recover  from  his 
astonishment  he  found  his  arm  linked  by  her  and  he  was 
on  his  feet  taking  his  place.  Did  he  wake  up?  He  most 
certainly  did.  For  the  rest  of  the  time  he  devoted  him- 
self to  her,  and  before  the  evening  was  over  was  ready 
to  propose  matrimony  and  start  out  in  life  with  her.  She 
came  from  a  farm  six  miles  away  on  the  other  side  of 
Colfax,  but  the  distance  might  have  been  as  far  as  the 
moon  and  he  would  have  made  it.  Yet  he  was  destined 
not  to  go  for  a  long,  long  time,  notwithstanding  he  asked 
and  received  permission  to  come.  If  it  was  a  case  of  love 
at  first  sight  it  was  also  a  case  where  true  love  did  not 
"run  smooth."  Just  at  the  time  agreed  upon  for  the  visit 
came  the  regulation  villain.  Clarke  was  told  that  after 
the  little  miss  had  gone  home  she  had  said  she  was  only 
fooling  with  Baseom,  that  she  would  not  have  anything 
to  do  with  him,  and  that  if  he  came  to  see  her  he  would 
not  get  in. 

Clarke  never  thought  to  question  the  truth  of  this.  He 
was  sensitive  to  a  fault.  Feeling  the  humbleness  of  his 

[103] 


situation  and  the  fact  that  he  came  as  a  waif,  he  was  too 
ready  to  believe  that  this  was  an  exact  statement  of  the 
situation.  The  boy  had  been  buffeted  about  so  much 
and  had  been  denied  so  many  things  that  he  was  ready 
to  believe  that  so  rich  a  thing  as  the  regard  of  this  splen- 
did girl,  or  even  a  thought  of  friendship,  could  not  be  his. 
So  when  the  time  came  he  did  not  go,  and  made  up  his 
mind  to  put  her  out  of  his  thought  and  life.  She  had 
come  with  a  young  man  belonging  to  one  of  the  well-to-do 
families  in  the  neighborhood  and  he  knew  that  this  young 
man  was  interested  in  her.  And  what  was  he?  Nothing 
but  a  poverty-stricken  farm  hand  with  nothing  ahead  of 
him  that  any  one  could  point  out  as  promising  sufficient 
to  take  care  of  a  wife. 

So,  though  he  did  not  go  to  see  her,  the  realization  of 
his  position  in  life  stirred  his  ambition  until  he  deter- 
mined that  no  handicap  should  prevent  him  from  mak- 
ing a  success.  He  was  a  Clarke,  and  would  come  into  his 
own  if  he  did  his  best  to  measure  up  to  the  standard  of 
industry  and  determination  which  ought  ever  to  be  the 
accompaniment  of  that  name.  He  turned  to  his  work, 
not  content  to  drift,  but  looking  for  the  chance  to  force 
an  opening  through  a  prospect  of  hopeless  mediocrity  into 
the  promise  of  a  successful  life.  And  it  is  not  to  be  de- 
nied that  a  fragment  of  hope  remained  that  ultimately 
he  might  prove  himself  worthy  and  mayhap  win  his  part- 
ner of  the  oyster  supper. 

In  the  meantime  no  one  knew  of  the  heartache  or 
wound  to  his  sensitive  nature  and  he  worked  and  played, 
and  never  went  half-way  in  either.  The  country  boy 
pranks  are  as  old  as  country  life  and  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  find  a  farmer's  boy  of  those  days  who  had  not 
made  the  night  hideous  with  a  charivari  of  a  newly  mar- 
ried couple  or  demonstrated  his  prowess  in  abstracting 
watermelons  from  a  well-guarded  patch.  A  marriage  was 
a  challenge  to  a  noisy  demonstration  which  ended  under 
the  code  as  soon  as  a  treat  was  provided.  A  melon  patch 
was  planted  with  the  thought  that  it  was  in  danger  of  in- 
vasion. Woe  be  to  the  newly-weds  who  refused  to  sub- 

[104] 


scribe  to  the  custom  of  the  times,  and  life  was  a  burden 
to  him  who  let  the  notice  go  forth  that  his  melons  were 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  boys. 

Both  of  these  methods  of  entertainment  were  new  to 
Bascom,  but  he  was  an  apt  scholar  in  mischief,  and  by  his 
originality  soon  became  a  leader.  To  his  credit  be  it  said 
that  there  was  no  malicious  destruction  of  property  under 
his  leadership.  A  melon  patch,  the  product  of  which  was 
free  to  the  boys  whenever  they  wanted  it,  was  safe  from 
intrusion.  Every  farmer  had  a  patch  and  it  was  not  nec- 
essary for  any  of  the  boys  to  raid  one  in  order  to  get 
what  they  wanted  to  eat.  The  generosity  of  Captain 
Waugh  with  the  melons  he  raised  was  so  well  known  that 
no  raid  was  ever  made  on  his  farm.  Possibly  the  fact 
that  one  of  the  principal  actors  in  the  process  of  obtain- 
ing them  unasked  lived  in  his  own  house  might  have  had 
something  to  do  with  his  immunity.  But  it  was  well 
known  to  all  the  boys  that  they  could  have  melons  any 
time  they  wanted  them  with  the  full  consent  of  the  Cap- 
tain. He  always  insisted  that  he  planted  them  for  their 
benefit. 

It  would  scarcely  be  dignified,  perhaps,  but  the  biog- 
raphers of  some  of  the  great  military  geniuses  of  the 
United  States  might  truthfully  state  that  their  first  dis- 
play of  military  sagacity  was  as  a  boy  in  a  melon  patch. 
The  campaign  was  planned  as  carefully  as  an  attack  upon 
the  fortified  rendezvous  of  the  opposing  army.  And  no 
two  attacks  were  made  in  the  same  manner.  Ingenuity 
of  approach  was  essential  to  possible  success.  For  in- 
stance, Uncle  Bill  Henderson  "allowed"  that  if  anybody 
came  fooling  around  his  melon  patch  there  would  be  a 
liberal  sprinkling  of  bird  shot  doled  out  as  a  welcome. 
He  built  a  shack  thatched  with  straw  right  in  the  midst 
of  the  patch.  With  his  dog  to  stand  guard  and  give  warn- 
ing of  the  approach  of  the  enemy  and  an  old  muzzle- 
loading  shotgun  for  weapon  he  slept  every  night  in  the 
shack. 

A  council  of  war  was  held  when  the  loudly  proclaimed 
challenge  went  forth,  and  it  was  unanimously  agreed  to 

[105] 


accept.  Wednesday  night,  after  prayer  meeting,  was  set 
for  the  attack.  The  details  of  the  affair  were  left  to  Bas- 
com  and  he  made  a  private  reeonnoissance  to  get  firmly 
in  his  mind  again  the  topography,  location  of  the  shack, 
best  line  of  approach,  and  the  safest  avenue  of  departure. 

An  hour  after  midnight,  thirteen  boys  rode  silently 
in  single  file  to  a  point  in  the  road  opposite  the  patch. 
Five  of  them  were  then  detailed  to  watch  the  horses.  The 
remainder  made  a  "slip-gap"  in  the  rail  fence  by  taking 
out  the  lower  rail  and  one  by  one  crawled  through,  Bas- 
com  in  the  lead.  HE  KNEW  THE  DOG.  Here  was  the 
key  to  the  entire  situation.  He  had  never  abused  a  dumb 
creature  in  his  life,  and  as  a  result,  every  dog  and  horse 
in  the  neighborhood  was  his  especial  friend.  So  Clarke 
slowly  and  carefully  made  his  way  at  the  head  of  the  line 
to  where  he  could  attract  the  attention  of  the  dog  and 
disclose  his  identity  without  awakening  his  master.  When 
this  was  finally  accomplished  a  little  petting  assured  the 
dog  that  all  was  right  and  a  few  melons  were  taken  and 
passed  down  the  line  of  prostrate  boys  and  through  the 
fence  to  the  watchers. 

It  was  then  decided  that  Uncle  Bill  would  deny  the 
visit  if  they  departed  without  awakening  him.  So  they 
laid  a  train  of  straw  quite  a  ways  back  from  the  shack  up 
to  the  building  and  set  fire  to  it.  Then  they  made  for 
their  horses  and  raised  a  yell  Bill  mistook  in  his  dreams 
for  the  battle  cry  of  the  Mississippi  Tigers,  which  he  had 
so  often  heard  while  south  with  the  72d  Indiana  cavalry. 
He  roused  from  his  slumbers,  heard  the  crackle  of  flames, 
jumped  to  his  feet  and  realized  that  his  preciously 
guarded  melons  had  been  touched  by  profane  hands.  In 
an  instant  "bang-bang"  went  the  shotgun,  followed  by 
a  fusilade  of  bullets  from  the  old  revolver  he  had  carried 
with  him  in  the  army.  The  boys,  satisfied  that  he  was 
awake,  mounted  their  horses  and  were  soon  out  of  range. 

Uncle  Bill  was  at  the  Waugh  residence  early  the  next 
morning,  demanding  with  much  profanity  and  vigor  of 
speech  that  that  "Smith"  boy  should  be  threshed  within 
an  inch  of  his  life. 

[106] 


"He  was  at  the  head  of  that  gang,  and  I  know  it," 
yelled  Uncle  Bill,  unhitching  a  few  profane  expletives 
from  his  vocabulary  and  hurling  them  out. 

Captain  Waugh  only  grinned  and  waited  until  the  noise 
of  the  explosion  subsided  and  then  said  quietly: 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  lay  it  to  our  boys,  Bill,  when 
we  've  got  better  melons  in  our  patch  than  you  ever  grew. ' ' 

So  Uncle  Bill  departed  uncomforted  and  unrelieved. 
As  a  reward  to  the  Captain  for  his  loyalty  and  in  recog- 
nition of  his  generosity  in  this  and  other  particulars  the 
boys  invited  him  to  a  feast  of  roast  chicken  in  the  sor- 
ghum house  that  night.  After  he  had  partaken  and  ex- 
pressed his  satisfaction  over  the  feed,  Bascom  piped  up: 

"Mighty  good  chicken,  ain't  they,  Captain?" 

"They  sure  are,"  responded  the  Captain.  "I  ain't 
goin '  to  ask  where  yuh  got  'em,  but  yer  some  powerful  on 
selection. ' ' 

"Yes,  sir"  continued  Bascom,  "we  allowed  we  only 
wanted  the  best  to  feed  you  with  and  so  we  took  them 
off  your  own  roost  to  make  sure." 

The  Captain  paused  with  a  dripping  "drumstick"  half 
way  to  his  mouth,  looked  sideways  at  the  speaker  for  an 
instant,  and  then  said: 

"Why,  certainly,  of  course.  I  thought  there  was  a 
familiar  taste  about  'em." 

The  news  of  the  raid  on  Uncle  Bill  Henderson  spread 
rapidly,  and  those  who  guarded  their  patches  redoubled 
their  vigilance.  The  perpetrators  led  the  suspicion  as  far 
as  they  could  in  the  direction  of  the  Coyner  boys  and  Bill 
Bowers  over  on  the  prairie,  whose  escapades  and  depre- 
dations were  somewhat  notorious. 

Uncle  Bill  Powers  had  a  fine  patch  of  melons  in  the  mid- 
dle of  his  cornfield.  He  loudly  defied  anyone  to  get  at 
them  without  suffering  personal  injury.  He  was  tan- 
talized with  suggestions  that  the  Coyners  sure  had  an 
eye  on  the  patch  and  would  not  let  it  pass.  This  caused 
him  to  adopt  the  extremest  measures.  Frank,  the  son, 
was  placed  on  watch,  armed  with  a  squirrel  rifle  and  a 
Colt's  revolver  which  Powers  was  accused  of  having 

[107] 


bought  when  he  joined  the  Knights  of  the  Golden  Circle. 
Frank  was  given  orders  by  his  father  to  shoot  and  shoot 
to  kill,  and  every  one  of  the  boys  knew  that  he  would  obey. 

So  the  expedition  against  this  patch  assumed  serious 
phases  which  ought  to  have  caused  the  boys  to  hesitate 
if  not  to  abandon  the  enterprise  altogether.  But  it  only 
called  forth  resort  to  another  military  strategy,  namely, 
drawing  the  fire  of  the  enemy  and  then  rushing  the  works 
before  a  new  supply  of  ammunition  and  reinforcements 
can  be  obtained.  The  night  chosen  was  one  when  Long 
Jake  Coyner  and  his  gang  were  known  to  be  in  the  neigh- 
borhood and  likely  to  get  the  credit  for  the  disturbance. 
"Old  Shep,"  Uncle  Bill's  dog,  was  on  watch  with  Frank, 
and  under  the  tactics  adopted  this  would  make  no  differ- 
ence. It  was  determined  that  when  the  defending  force 
retreated  for  ammunition  and  reinforcements  sufficient 
time  would  be  given  to  leave  the  evidence  of  the  visit, 
and  this  was  all  that  was  desired. 

The  orders  were  to  lie  flat  on  the  ground  in  the  corn 
until  the  shots  were  counted  which  indicated  the  expendi- 
ture of  the  last  of  the  ammunition  on  hand  in  the  garrison. 
There  was  but  one  shot  in  the  squirrel  rifle  and  five  in  the 
revolver.  A  careful  survey  of  the  situation  by  the  eom- 
mander-in-chief,  the  evening  before,  had  determined  that 
this  was  all.  The  squirrel  rifle  was  a  muzzle-loader,  and 
the  revolver  contained  powder  and  ball  in  each  chamber, 
and  was  fired  with  percussion  caps.  So  the  process  of 
reloading  would  be  necessarily  slow.  Knowing  these 
things  the  commander-in-chief  reasoned  that  the  garrison 
would  go  to  the  house  for  reinforcements  rather  than  stop 
to  reload  his  ancient  apparatus. 

An  armful  of  "dornicks"  each  was  selected  from  the 
bottom  of  Potato  Creek,  and  the  attacking  party  wormed 
silently  through  the  cornfield  to  a  point  near  enough  for 
their  purpose.  At  a  whispered  order  a  shower  of  rocks 
was  sent  in  to  shell  the  camp  and  arouse  the  defender. 
Then  the  attacking  party  immediately  laid  flat  between 
the  corn  rows.  "Sping"  went  the  squirrel  rifle,  imme- 
diately followed  by  the  bang-bang-bang-bang-bang  of  the 

[108] 


revolver.  ' '  Old  Shep ' '  joined  his  voice  to  the  general  com- 
motion. When  the  six  shots  had  been  counted,  with  a 
yell  and  a  storm  of  rocks  the  attacking  party  advanced 
upon  the  citadel.  As  anticipated,  Frank  fled  to  the  house 
to  arouse  his  father,  while  "Shep"  was  close  at  his  heels. 
The  seeds  of  a  juicy  melon  were  scattered  over  the  shanty, 
each  grabbed  a  melon  and  made  for  the  timber,  thence  by 
a  circuitous  route  home. 

At  dinner  the  next  day  the  raid  on  the  Powers  patch 
was  under  discussion.  Young  Clarke,  with  a  well- 
assumed  air  of  innocence,  suggested  that  it  might  be  well 
to  guard  their  own  patch  against  the  possible  incursion 
of  the  Coyner  gang. 

Captain  Waugh  looked  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  and 
sagely  remarked: 

"And  feed  them  roast  chicken  afterward!" 

That  was  all,  but  it  was  sufficient  to  indicate  that  he 
had  guessed  the  real  leader,  at  least,  in  the  subjugation 
of  Bill  Powers'  melon  patch. 


[109] 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Bascom  did  not  lack  for  religious  teaching  in  his  new 
home.  If  all  the  different  beliefs,  isms,  sects  and  creeds 
had  been  a  boiling  flood  and  then  hunted  a  suitable  set- 
tling basin  they  could  not  have  accomplished  more  than 
the  community  in  the  valley  of  Potato  Creek  showed.  Old 
fashioned  Methodists,  Dunkards,  Soul  Sleepers,  Spiritual- 
ists and  a  score  or  more  of  greater  and  lesser  denomina- 
tions found  lodgment  there.  "Goin'  to  meetin'  "  and 
Sunday  school  was  as  much  a  part  of  life  as  eating.  Any- 
one who  failed  to  attend  some  form  of  worship  was  im- 
mediately classed  as  one  on  the  direct  road  to  purgatory. 

Mayhap  the  adherents  of  each  of  the  beliefs  would  criti- 
cise and  belabor  all  the  others  as  uncertain  and  outland- 
ish ways  to  glory,  but  towards  them  they  were  tolerant, 
although  pitying  them  for  their  lack  of  comprehension 
which  led  them  by  so  crooked  a  path  to  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven.  But  they  all  pounced  with  one  accord,  as  un- 
worthy confidence  or  recognition,  upon  that  person  who 
dared  to  assert  disbelief  in  any  of  them.  Bascom,  being 
of  an  inquiring  mind,  though  practically  classed  with  the 
Methodists,  was  given  to  looking  in  upon  the  entire  va- 
riety. To  be  sure,  all  except  the  Methodists  were  usually 
attended  by  him  as  a  means  of  entertainment. 

A  revival  in  old  Bethel  Methodist  church  was  an  espe- 
cial occasion  for  the  assemblage  of  the  community,  and 
its  success  was  measured  by  the  number  who  were  brought 
triumphant  to  the  mourner's  bench.  For  in  those  days 
they  had  a  "mourner's  bench,"  not  a  chancel.  And  if 
folks  felt  like  shouting  their  praises  at  the  top  of  their 
voices  there  was  none  to  chide.  It  was  noisy,  demonstrat- 
ive religion,  but  it  was  religion.  There  could  be  no  de- 
nying the  sincerity  or  earnestness  of  the  worshippers,  or 
their  anxiety  to  bring  others  into  the  fold.  Christianity ! 
It  bubbled  up  like  a  never-ending  spring  of  pure  water. 

WO] 


% 


Great,  strong  characters  were  these  people.  Take  Aunt 
Sally  Kendall  as  an  example.  She  lived  her  religion  every 
day,  winter  and  summer.  It  seemed  to  be  the  very  breath 
of  her  existence.  She  was  Clarke's  Sunday  school  teacher, 
and  she  worked  and  longed  for  him  to  be  caught  in  the 
great  tidal  wave  of  religious  enthusiasm  which  accompa- 
nied a  revival.  At  these  times  when  she  was  not  praying 
or  singing  or  telling  her  story  of  Jesus  and  His  love  she 
was  chasing  Bascom  and  his  chums  down  the  aisles,  seek- 
ing to  take  them  as  unbranded  mavericks  on  the  range 
of  religious  hope  up  to  where  the  minister  could  give 
them  his  seal  as  probationers.  Though  the  spirit  of  mis- 
chief may  have  prompted  him  to  dodge  the  good  woman 
in  her  endeavors,  yet  she  left  her  impress  upon  the  lad  so 
that  he,  already  well  grounded  in  religious  thought  and 
belief,  came  as  near  being  a  Methodist  as  he  possibly 
could  without  being  an  affiliant  of  the  church.  It  was  she 
who  stimulated  him  to  learn  the  verses  of  the  Bible,  until 
he  won  the  prize  for  repeating  more  than  anyone  else  in 
the  Sunday  school. 

It  was  Aunt  Sally  who  told  the  boys  of  their  faults  and 
sought  by  gentle,  motherly  sympathy  to  win  them  to  cor- 
rect living.  Aunt  Sally,  it  was,  who  successfully  pleaded 
for  them  with  'Squire  Mitchell  when  they  took  some  of 
his  fence  rails  and  blocked  the  highway.  And  again  it 
was  she  who  gave  them  their  first  lesson  in  tolerance. 
The  Soul  Sleepers  had  a  baptism  in  Potato  Creek.  Every- 
body went  that  Sunday  afternoon  to  witness  the  process. 
The  boys,  standing  on  the  bridge  above,  kicked  dirt  down 
into  the  water,  but  the  sharp  eyes  of  Aunt  Sally  caught 
them  at  it  and  at  her  rebuke  they  immediately  desisted. 

"Ye  ain't  got  no  call,  boys,  to  mix  dirt  in  another  man's 
religion.  They're  entitled  to  the  clean  water  God  gives 
'em  to  wash  in,  if  they  wants  to.  An'  if  they  wants  to 
go  in  swimmin'  in  the  name  o'  the  Lord  let  'em  swim. 
It's  the  sperrit  ye  do  things  with  that  counts  with  God." 

Dear  old  Aunt  Sally!  She  used  to  "walk  with  God," 
as  she  called  it,  when  her  hands  were  so  crippled  with 

[ill] 


rheumatism  that  they  were  drawn  out  of  shape,  and 
surely  it  could  be  written  of  her : 

"This  is  the  disciple  which  testifieth  of  these  things, 
.  .  .  and  we  know  that  his  [her]  testimony  is  true." 

Did  not  her  influence  and  teachings  fitly  supplement 
those  of  the  sainted  grandmother  whose  body  laid  in  the 
little  cemetery  at  Mount  Adams,  back  in  Arkansas? 

When  Aunt  Sally  died  she  simply  told  her  friends 
good-bye,  and  said: 

"I  see  the  beautiful  gates  open  and  earth  seems  fading 
away.  All  is  well.  I  have  fought  the  good  fight  and  am 
going  home  to  glory." 

Old  Charley  Derrickson  was  a  colored  preacher  who 
was  wont  to  tell  the  Lord  about  the  refugee  boy  and  seek 
to  implant  in  the  mind  of  Bascom  the  eternal,  living 
truths.  Although  an  ordained  Quaker  preacher,  he  had 
few  of  the  Quaker  characteristics  when  it  came  to  method 
of  expression.  He  could  be  heard  coming  along  the  road, 
night  or  day,  shouting  and  singing  his  praises  to  the 
Great  King.  He  would  expound  the  Scriptures  and 
preach  a  sermon  at  any  time  and  anywhere,  on  the  slight- 
est suggestion  that  by  so  doing  he  could  awaken  a  sleep- 
ing flame  of  religious  fervor  and  bring  a  soul  repentant 
to  its  Maker. 

In  the  days  before  the  war  Derrickson  worked  a  sec- 
tion of  the  "underground  railway"  by  which  escaping 
slaves  were  helped  to  Canada.  He  lived  to  be  over  a 
hundred  years  old  and  was  gathered  to  his  fathers  like  a 
patriarch  of  old.  He  did  not  go,  however,  until  Bascom, 
as  a  successful  business  man,  had  been  able  to  tell  him 
in  person  of  the  influence  he  had  exerted  on  his  life. 

"Dutch  Will,"  as  a  little  German  who  lived  right  by 
the  church  used  to  be  called,  could  only  stammer  in  his 
broken  way  and  say  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again 
in  prayer  meeting  and  class  meeting: 

"My  Christian  friends,  I  can  schtill  say  I'm  trying  to 
serve  the  Lord,  und  I  vants  you  all  to  pray  for  me." 

That  was  all,  but  somehow,  with  his  life  of  simple  god- 
liness, no  more  was  needed.  Through  such  men  as  this 


CHARLIE  DEREieK§ON":MIGGE&' PREACHER 


TYPICAL   SOUTHERN  COLORED  FAMILY 


humble  toiler  Bascom  came  to  realize  that  it  was  the  liv- 
ing of  the  truths  of  the  Gospel  that  counted,  not  the  elo- 
quence of  words. 

Then  came  Jesse  Parish,  one  of  God's  noblemen.  He 
had  served  in  the  Army  of  the  Cumberland  for  four  years, 
and  had  carried  his  old-fashioned  Methodist  religion  all 
the  way  through.  His  Bible  was  his  constant  companion. 
When  it  is  known  that  he  was  the  brother  of  Aunt  Sally 
the  wonder  at  this  steadfastness  may  not  be  so  great. 
Profanity,  liquor  and  gaming  were  outside  his  role.  He 
was  deeply  interested  in  Clarke  and  a  sterling  example 
of  righteousness  to  the  boy.  A  daughter,  Doctor  Rebecca 
Parish,  is  a  Christian  medical  missionary  in  the  Philip- 
pines. There  she  has  erected  a  hospital  for  the  poor  and 
is  training  native  girls  to  help  "La  Doctora"  care  for 
the  unfortunates.  Every  grief  assuaged,  every  misery 
relieved,  every  suffering  mitigated  through  the  instru- 
mentality of  this  good  woman  is  a  testimony  to  her  father 
and  mother,  from  whom  she  drew  the  inspiration  to  do 
good. 

There  is  always  in  every  community  one  character  who 
stands  as  the  center  of  influence  and  to  whose  judgment 
nearly  everybody  yields.  In  the  Bethel  church  neighbor- 
hood John  Mitchell,  the  'Squire,  occupied  this  position. 
He  was  the  dominant  factor  in  the  church  as  well  as  in 
the  neighborhood.  He  had  a  big  farm,  well  tilled,  and 
for  those  times  was  wealthy.  He  was  slow  and  deliberate 
in  speech,  and  as  a  result  never  gave  utterance  to  an 
opinion  which  had  not  been  carefully  weighed  before  ex- 
pression. No  class  meeting  was  complete  without  him, 
and  a  church  service  which  did  not  behold  him  in  his 
pew  was  a  rarity  causing  immediate  comment  and  inquiry. 

He  was  a  giant  in  size  and  would  as  soon  fight  as  pray 
if  he  thought  he  was  right.  He  bore  the  burdens  of  more 
of  the  community  than  any  other  person  and  by  his  good 
sense  often  helped  to  solve  its  perplexing  problems.  The 
'Squire  was  consulted  on  everything,  from  the  laying  out 
of  a  new  highway  to  the  proper  name  for  the  new  baby ; 
from  the  complexities  of  the  tariff  to  the  best  means  of 

8  [113] 


combatting  the  ravages  of  the  grub-worm ;  from  the  things 
which  would  bring  the  greatest  prosperity  to  the  com- 
monwealth to  the  best  time  to  sell  the  calves.  Widely 
read  and  of  ripe  experience,  he  was  the  oracle  of  Potato 
Creek. 

When  he  was  "converted"  it  was  not  in  the  stress  and 
excitement  of  a  "revival,"  but  through  deliberate  rea- 
soning, ending  in  his  walking  up  to  the  chancel  and  offer- 
ing himself  as  a  candidate  for  probation.  Immediately 
the  reins  of  leadership  in  the  religious  society  were 
handed  over  to  him,  and  he  took  them  as  naturally  as  he 
assumed  the  chair  at  town  meetings  or  political  gather- 
ings. He  never  knew  fear.  The  banner  he  carried  would 
never  trail  in  the  dust  except  it  fell  with  him. 

This  spirit  was  demonstrated  on  the  occasion  of  the 
McKendrie  camp  meeting.  All  Bethel  church  was  there, 
together  with  the  Methodists  for  miles  around.  In  addi- 
tion to  those  who  came  to  pray  and  praise  there  were 
those  who  came  to  scoff  and  ridicule.  Among  the  latter 
was  "Devil  Ike"  Wyant,  with  a  gang  of  roughs,  intent 
on  breaking  up  the  meeting.  The  first  skirmish  took  place 
one  forenoon,  when  "Devil  Ike"  knocked  down  "Lige" 
Mitchell,  the  'Squire's  brother,  who  had  remonstrated 
with  Ike  for  swearing.  In  the  altercation  which  followed 
Wyant  found  the  numbers  too  great  and  left,  vowing 
that  he  would  return  in  the  afternoon  with  reinforce- 
ments and  break  up  the  meeting. 

It  was  a  serious  situation,  for  the  campers  were  satis- 
fied that  the  threat  to  return  would  be  made  good.  They 
counseled  together,  and  some  were  for  abandoning  the 
meeting  and  leaving  rather  than  have  trouble.  But  John 
Mitchell  decreed  otherwise. 

"We  are  doin'  the  Lord's  work,  and  with  His  sanc- 
tion, and  'if  God  is  with  us,  who  shall  be  against  us?' 
I  ain't  afraid  o'  no  man  livin'  if  the  Lord's  on  my  side. 
We'll  fight." 

He  drove  immediately  to  Midway  (now  Golf  ax),  about 
two  miles  away,  and  procured  a  warrant  for  the  arrest 
of  Ike  and  other  disturbers  of  the  peace  whose  names 

[114] 


were  unknown.  On  his  return  he  handed  the  processe 
to  "Billie"  Blacker,  the  constable,  a  faithful  Christian, 
and  said : 

"Now,  Bill,  you  serve  the  writ  and  I'll  make  the  ar- 
rest." 

Sure  enough,  the  afternoon  brought  "Devil  Ike"  and  ^ 
crowd  of  the  toughest  element  in  the  country  round  about. 
They  were  drunk  and  profane,  threatening  dire  vengeance 
on  the  entire  congregation.  Blacker  raised  his  hand  in 
warning  and  said: 

"We've  the  law  on  our  side,  Ike,  and  I  have  a  warrant 
for  your  arrest." 

Ike  reached  for  his  pistol,  but  before  he  could  draw  it 
the  'Squire,  who  had  cut  a  stout  hickory  club  and  was 
close  at  hand,  felled  him  to  the  ground  like  an  ox.  With 
Ike  out  of  the  way  his  attention  and  that  of  the  others 
was  directed  to  the  remainder  of  the  gang  until  every 
member  was  either  under  arrest  or  beaten  into  insensi- 
bility. All  were  taken  to  the  village  and  fined  heavily. 

"Devil  Ike"  left  town  vowing  that  the  life  of  John 
Mitchell  should  be  the  forfeit  for  his  share  in  the  affair. 
The  desperado  had  lost  one  hand  in  a  duel  in  Illinois 
before  the  war,  and  afterwards  killed  the  man  who  had 
crippled  him.  It  was  claimed  by  his  friends  that  Lincoln 
had  defended  and  cleared  him  of  the  charge  of  the  mur- 
der. His  reputation  was  well  known  and  Mitchell  real- 
ized that  if  occasion  were  given  Ike  would  probably  make 
good  his  threat. 

The  desperado  returned  to  Illinois,  remaining  there  for 
several  years.  When  he  came  back  to  Indiana  Wyant 
renewed  his  threats,  and  many  fears  were  expressed  con- 
cerning the  danger  to  the  'Squire.  The  latter  gave  no  evi- 
dence, however,  that  he  was  worrying  over  the  matter. 
On  his  way  to  Crawfordsville  one  morning  Mitchell  saw 
"Devil  Ike"  coming  in  his  direction.  The  'Squire  was 
accosted  with: 

"Oh,  you  old  devil !  I've  waited  all  these  years  for  this 
chance.  You  owe  me  your  life." 

[115] 


Before  he  realized  it,  Ike  was  looking  down  the  muzzle 
of  a  revolver  in  the  hands  of  the  fighting  Methodist  and 
heard  the  quiet  response: 

"Yes,  and  I've  just  got  the  change." 

He  saw  the  determination  in  the  gray  eye  and  the 
steady  hand  holding  the  revolver.  With  a  curse  he  turned 
and  drove  away.  A  short  time  afterwards  he  was  found 
dead  with  a  bullet  in  his  brain.  A  nephew  was  arrested, 
charged  with  the  homicide.  The  'Squire  heard  of  it  and 
voluntarily  went  to  Frankfort  to  testify  for  the  defense. 
On  the  witness  stand  he  told  the  jury  that  whoever  killed 
"Devil  Ike"  rendered  a  service  to  his  country.  Largely 
through  his  story  the  young  man  was  cleared. 

There  was  one  in  the  community  who  did  not  believe 
in  Mitchell.  That  was  Grandma  Stook.  Whenever 
Mitchell  prayed  she  would  jump  up  and  run  out  of  meet- 
ing. She  said: 

"He  is  a  deceitful  old  devil  and  cheated  me  in  a  land 
trade." 

The  'Squire  was  greatly  disturbed,  and  he  had  tried 
repeatedly  to  talk  to  her  and  explain  the  matter.  Con- 
scious that  he  had  not  at  any  time  done  her  wrong  inten- 
tionally, he  felt  chagrined  at  this  public  denunciation. 
But  she  would  neither  talk  nor  listen  to  him.  So  he  was 
forced  to  give  up  and  bide  his  time.  The  old  lady  was 
coming  down  toward  the  gateway  that  leads  to  the  other 
world.  As  she  realized  her  time  was  short  she  finally 
sent  for  the  'Squire  and  there  came  the  reconciliation 
and  forgiveness  on  both  sides. 

"Pray  for  me,  John,  that  God  may  forgive  me  as  you 
have." 

Kneeling  at  her  bedside  he  prayed  for  her  soul's  re- 
pose, not  the  stilted,  formal  prayer  with  which  he  was 
wont  to  petition  the  Lord  at  church  services,  but  the 
pulsation  of  a  great  heart  rejoicing  at  being  at  peace 
with  this  poor  woman  who  had  misjudged  him.  As  he 
finished  and  arose  she  weakly  placed  her  hand  in  his  and 
said: 

"John,  I  believe  God  has  heard  your  prayer." 

[116] 


Then  she  passed  out  in  the  beautiful  beyond. 

These  lives,  in  their  richness  and  ripeness,  their  hopes 
and  fears,  and  these  incidents  so  demonstrative  of  char- 
acter, could  not  fail  to  help  mold  the  life  of  the  boy.  And 
when  the  serious  problems  of  life  came  to  him  later,  those 
problems  which  called  for  the  exercise  of  all  his  strength 
of  mind  and  sturdiness  of  character,  these  influences, 
lodged  within  the  doors  of  his  memory,  helped  to  make 
him  strong  and  give  him  that  faith  which  made  moun- 
tains melt  into  molehills  and  rocky  barriers  to  crumble 
into  dust.  More  than  once  he  was  moved  to  thank  God 
for  having,  through  privation,  want  and  suffering,  moved 
him  among  these  people,  to  let  him  know  them  and  drink 
at  the  fountain  of  pure  faith  with  them.  It  was  a  great 
discipline,  hard  and  cruel  at  times,  but  such  as  would 
find  the  diamond  of  worth  in  a  man  if  it  existed. 


[117] 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  cornfields  assumed  the  appearance  of  Indian  vil- 
lages, with  the  shocked  corn  for  wigwams.  The  early 
frost  had  started  the  gorgeous  tints  on  the  sycamores, 
beeches  and  maples.  It  was  too  soon  for  the  fall  rains. 
The  dust  was  deep  in  the  roadways  and  hung  like  a  gray 
blanket  on  the  grass  and  weeds  beside,  rising  in  a  chok- 
ing cloud  with  the  passing  of  every  vehicle. 

Down  the  highway  from  the  Hoffman  farm  walked  a 
solitary  figure.  On  his  head  a  dirty  straw  hat  which  the 
summer  rains  had  warped  into  the  shape  of  an  old- 
fashioned  bee-hive.  His  worn  jeans  trousers  were  in  the 
tops  of  his  heavy  cow-hide  boots.  A  well-worn,  though 
clean,  hickory  shirt  completed  the  vesture,  while  a 
garment  intended  at  one  time  for  a  coat  hung  over  his 
arm.  Short  of  stature  and  lean  of  figure,  with  a  face 
that  told  a  story  of  hardships  and  hands  that  bore  un- 
mistakable evidence  of  heavy  tasks,  Bascom  Clarke  was 
on  his  way  to  town  to  start  upon  a  business  career. 

He  had  no  well  defined  plan  of  how  he  was  to  accom- 
plish it,  with  neither  money  nor  business  training.  But 
he  lacked  the  physical  strength  to  wrest  success  in  life 
on  the  farm  under  the  agricultural  methods  of  the  time 
and  the  pay  which  a  farm  hand  received.  There  lurked 
in  his  system  the  malarial  germs  brought  with  him  from 
Arkansas,  which,  coupled  with  insufficient  nourishment 
and  neglect  in  his  boyhood  years,  had  left  him  physically 
impoverished.  In  addition  to  all  this  one  of  his  legs  was 
badly  affected  as  a  result  of  poison  from  a  mosquito  bite 
in  the  White  River  country,  and  was  continually  giving 
him  trouble,  making  his  work  almost  unbearable  at  times. 

After  his  relief  from  the  bondage  of  Old  Man  Smith 
he  had  been  with  Captain  Waugh  until  he  was  older,  and 
then  at  other  places  in  the  neighborhood  where  help  was 

[118] 


needed.  But  the  life  palled  on  him,  and,  seeing  no  future 
but  drudgery  and  poverty,  he  resolved  to  change  it  so 
far  as  he  could.  Bascom  believed  he  could  not  be  any 
worse  off  than  he  was,  and  that  sometime  and  somewhere 
a  door  would  be  opened  to  his  ambition. 

He  had  sat  on  a  plowbeam  while  the  horses  rested  and 
watched  the  trains  go  by,  building  air  castles  with  their 
steeples  towering  toward  heaven  and  praying  for  the  op- 
portunity to  build  real  ones.  He  had  seen  the  hustle  and 
bustle  of  active  business  life  and  ached  to  get  into  its 
scrimmage,  and  then  felt  the  strain  of  the  halter  strap 
which  kept  him  traveling  in  a  circle  in  the  day's  grind. 
He  fretted  at  the  lack  of  opportunity  and  wished  he  had 
a  hundred  dollars.  It  would  enable  him  to  show  the 
world  what  he  could  do. 

But  week  after  week  and  month  after  month  he  toiled 
at  low  wages,  because  farm  help  was  held  cheaply.  He 
drove  a  team  for  one  of  the  neighbors  on  the  grading  of 
the  new  railroad  and  had  done  all  the  varieties  of  work 
which  would  naturally  come  in  a  farming  community, 
but  there  was  no  hope  for  growth  or  advancement,  and 
absolutely  no  avenue  for  entering  into  business. 

Besides,  there  was  the  girl  of  his  dreams,  who  had  sin- 
gled him  out  for  her  especial  favor  at  Captain  Waugh's. 
It  has  been  demonstrated  over  and  over  that  nothing  so 
spurs  the  ambition  and  stimulates  industry  as  the  holding 
out  of  the  possibility  that  a  certain  woman  may  share  in 
the  things  which  may  be  wrested  from  the  freakish  Dame 
Fortune. 

Since  the  night  this  girl  had  been  his  partner  in  the 
game  played  he  had  never  met  her.  But  she  had  come 
into  his  discouraged  life  like  a  flash  of  hope  and  its  light 
had  remained  kindled  in  his  heart  all  the  time  since.  He 
doubtless  did  not  own  it  to  himself,  but  it  is  more  than 
probable  that  the  greater  possibility  of  seeing  her  and 
the  hunger  in  his  heart  for  the  sound  of  her  voice  and  the 
sight  of  her  face  had  something  to  do  with  his  fixing 
upon  Colfax  as  the  place  wherein  he  should  begin  his  task 
of  conquering  a  place  in  the  world  for  himself.  With 

[119] 


this  new  element  in  his  life  it  had  dawned  upon  him  that, 
instead  of  drifting  with  the  current  of  events,  he  must 
carve  his  own  future,  and  the  sooner  he  started  the  carv- 
ing process  the  more  chance  he  had  of  ultimately  suc- 
ceeding. 

He  realized  as  never  before  his  lack  of  education  and 
his  physical  unfitness.  But  if  a  woman,  or  the  woman, 
was  to  have  a  place  in  his  life,  he  must  stop  vegetating 
and  commence  to  grow.  In  following  the  line  of  least 
resistance  for  so  long  he  had  almost  forgotten  that  he  was 
a  Clarke.  To  most  of  the  people  he  was  still  connected 
in  mind  with  the  Smiths.  And  so  it  was  when  he  an- 
nounced to  the  Hoffman  family  that  he  was  going  to  town 
to  live  and  work,  they  pitied  his  judgment  and  ridiculed 
the  idea  that  with  no  prospect  and  no  money  he  should 
refuse  to  let  well  enough  alone  and  waste  time  in  the 
village. 

John  Ghent  was  busy  in  his  one-man  drug  store  when 
he  looked  up  and  beheld  Bascom  standing  there,  evi- 
dently waiting  to  see  him.  Supposing  he  came  as  a 
customer,  he  turned  to  him  when  at  leisure  and  asked 
him  what  he  wanted. 

"I  want  a  job,  sir,"  answered  Bascom. 

"A  job!    What  do  you  know  about  drugs?" 

"Nothing." 

Now,  it  came  to  pass  that  as  Bascom  had  waited  in 
this  particular  store  on  this  and  other  occasions  his  mind 
had  been  busy  conjuring  up  the  things  that  could  be  done 
by  him  there,  so  much  so  that  he  had  practically  hired 
himself  to  Ghent  before  that  individual  was  aware  of  it. 
A  one-man  store  is  different  from  a  one-man  band.  In 
the  latter  the  proprietor  gets  some  sort  of  harmony  and 
rhythm  out  of  the  various  instruments  he  plays  with  his 
hands,  feet,  elbows,  knees,  mouth  and  head.  In  a  one- 
man  store  the  more  the  man  wriggles  and  twists  and 
hurries  to  meet  the  demands  of  the  trade  the  more  of 
disorder  and  chaos  results. 

John  Ghent's  place  of  business  was  no  exception.    He 

[120] 


never  had  time  to  put  things  in  order.  The  dirt  covered 
the  windows,  shelves  and  goods.  The  bottles  of  drugs 
were  dingy  and  unattractive  and  the  floor  covered  with 
litter  and  cumbered  with  boxes.  By  the  end  of  the  long 
business  day  the  proprietor  was  tired  enough  to  go  to 
bed  instead  of  spending  time  to  clean  up.  As  a  result 
the  store  was  certainly  a  sight  to  behold.  Mrs.  Ghent 
took  time  once  in  awhile  from  her  household  duties  to 
"tidy  up"  a  bit,  but  she  had  enough  to  do  at  her  end 
of  the  partnership  without  spending  many  hours  in  the 
store.  So  when  the  question  came  Clarke  was  prepared 
to  answer  it. 

"Well,  what  can  you  do?" 

"I  can  wash  them  bottles,  sir,  and  the  windows,  and 
mop  the  floor!" 

Ghent  looked  at  him  a  minute,  sizing  him  up  and  con- 
templating the  matter,  and  then,  as  though  struck  with 
having  help  of  that  kind,  said : 

"All  right,  go  ahead.    You've  got  a  job  on  probation." 

And  thus  Bascom  began  his  business  career.  Nothing 
was  said  about  wages  or  pay.  He  began  on  the  windows 
immediately,  and  soon  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  them 
shine,  and  for  the  first  time  in  months  at  least  the  outside 
public  were  able  to  get  a  view  of  the  interior.  Then  he 
began  on  the  bottles.  During  the  day  Ghent  called  him 
to  get  things  and  told  him  where  they  were,  so  he  was 
continually  on  the  jump,  busy  and  for  the  first  time  in 
many  a  day,  happy.  He  was  alert  to  anticipate  what  was 
wanted  by  the  proprietor  in  addition  to  keeping  broom, 
mop  and  wash  rags  busy. 

He  soon  demonstrated,  to  his  own  satisfaction  at  least, 
that  he  was  a  useful  if  not  absolutely  essential  part  of 
the  business.  He  went  up  to  the  house  and  Mrs.  Ghent 
gave  him  his  dinner  and  supper.  The  boy  seemed  to  win 
his  way  to  her  heart  immediately.  He  had  no  inkling 
as  to  whether  he  was  to  be  kept  beyond  that  day  until 
an  incident  happened  in  the  evening  which  established 
his  place  and  value  and  solved  the  question  for  Ghent  at 
once. 

[121] 


Four  men  had  come  into  the  store  for  oil  and  grease 
for  their  threshing  outfit,  near  town.  During  the  evening, 
previous  to  their  coming  to  the  drug  store  after  neces- 
sary supplies  for  their  machinery,  they  had  spent  several 
hours  at  "Old  Jerry's"  place  across  the  street,  taking  on 
a  supply  of  "forty-rod"  whisky  which  had  a  fight  in 
every  drink.  So  by  the  time  they  reached  Ghent's  estab- 
lishment they  were  in  prime  condition  for  a  quarrel. 
While  Ghent  was  getting  the  oil  the  leader  of  the  gang, 
a  big,  burly,  noisy  fellow,  suddenly  began  to  apply  some 
unrefined  and  approbious  epithets  to  Ghent  and  finally 
charged  him  with  being  a  thief  and  cheating  him  at  a 
horse  trade,  ending  up  with  a  declaration  that  he  intended 
to  "mop  the  floor"  with  him. 

Clarke  came  in  from  the  back  room  just  in  time  to 
hear  the  altercation,  and  jerking  an  old  Derringer  pistol 
out  of  his  pocket  was  at  Ghent's  side  in  an  instant.  Just 
as  the  big  brute  had  his  fist  raised  to  strike  and  the 
others  were  gathering  in  to  close  on  the  druggist,  they 
found  themselves  confronting  the  muzzle  of  the  gun. 
They  hesitated  long  enough  for  Ghent  to  recover  from 
his  surprise  and  reach  into  the  drawer  for  his  pepper- 
box, and  with  two  pistols  trained  on  the  disturbers  Ghent 
calmly  told  the  men  that  a  move  on  their  part  meant  in- 
stant death. 

They  looked  into  the  determined  faces  of  the  man  and 
boy,  and  then  the  fight  of  the  liquor  departed  and  fear 
took  its  place.  They  began  to  beg,  the  leader  the  loudest 
among  them.  Then  they  began  to  abjurgate  themselves 
and  the  whisky  courage  turned  to  whining  remorse  of 
conscience  until,  thoroughly  sobered  by  the  menace  of 
death,  they  apologized  for  their  language  and  conduct. 
Mutual  explanations  were  then  made  by  Ghent  and  the 
gang  leader  anent  the  horse  trade  and  the  latter  departed 
with  his  retinue,  loud  in  his  protestations  of  everlasting 
friendship. 

When  they  had  gone,  the  druggist  turned  to  the  boy 
and  extended  his  hand: 

"Your  probation  is  at  end,  son.    You  stay." 

[122] 


The  events  of  the  evening  were  duly  told  to  Mrs.  Ghent, 
after  the  store  had  closed,  and  she  put  her  hand  on  the 
boy's  head,  looked  into  his  face  and  quickly  assented  to 
the  arrangement.  Then  she  told  him  not  to  stay  late  in 
the  store,  but  to  come  home  and  go  to  bed  early,  thus 
avoiding  much  of  the  roughness  and  coarseness  the  town 
contained.  The  line  of  railroad,  now  a  part  of  the  Penn- 
sylvania system,  but  then  known  as  the  "Dolly  Varden," 
was  being  built  through  the  village,  and  the  graders  and 
construction  gang  included  some  pretty  tough  characters. 


[123] 


CHAPTER  XV. 

If  a  person  wanted  a  broad  education  John  Ghent's 
drug  store  was  a  good  school, — that  is,  if  only  breadth 
were  desired  and  quality  not  considered.  It  was  the  ren- 
dezvous of  all  the  village  characters,  from  the  minister, 
who  dropped  in  once  in  awhile  to  rub  up  against  a  savory 
joke,  to  the  construction  gangster,  who  decorated  his 
language  with  the  latest  inventions  in  the  way  of  pro- 
fanity ;  from  the  old  woman,  who  came  to  get  some  of  her 
favorite  "yarb"  for  medicine,  to  the  village  maiden, 
bashfully  asking  for  her  first  supply  of  cosmetics. 

The  democracy  of  such  an  establishment  is  marked,  and 
in  this  atmosphere  Baseom  Clarke  swam  like  an  old  timer. 
At  first  he  was  a  good  listener.  He  attended  to  the  duties 
of  the  place  with  unquestioned  industry,  feeling  his  way 
as  it  were  to  a  recognized  place  in  the  community  with 
which  he  had  cast  his  fortune.  Then  came  good-natured 
banter  and  raillery  directed  at  him,  which  was  caught 
and  returned  with  interest  until  he  became  a  general 
favorite  of  the  habitues  of  the  store.  They  conferred  on 
him  the  nickname  of  "Doc,"  which  clung  to  him  all  the 
remainder  of  his  days  in  Colfax. 

By  watching  John  Ghent  compound  the  concoctions 
which  he  was  called  upon  to  dispense,  studying  the 
contents  of  the  bottles  and  packages  displayed  in  the 
main  store  and  filling  the  prescription  case,  Clarke  soon 
learned  to  evolve  the  mysterious  mixtures  himself,  at  first 
under  the  eyes  and  direction  of  Ghent,  and  then  inde- 
pendently. Abner  Trotter  was  postmaster  and  a  section 
of  the  store  was  set  off  for  the  business  of  the  federal 
government.  Baseom  was  sworn  in  as  assistant  to  the 
postmaster  and  helped  to  take  care  of  the  village  mail, 
and  the  postofiice  employe  in  a  village  who  does  not 
thereby  obtain  inside  information  as  to  the  lives  of  the 

[124] 


people  is  dull  indeed.  He  was  the  possessor  of  the  life 
secrets  of  the  patrons,  and  to  his  credit  be  it  said,  they 
remained  secrets  so  far  as  he  was  concerned.  Nor  did  he 
once  take  advantage  in  any  way  of  the  information  thus 
obtained. 

His  scrupulous  honesty,  genial  manner  and  loyalty  to 
his  work  made  him  an  invaluable  asset  to  his  employer. 
Thus  he  grew  into  the  affairs  of  the  community.  Of 
course  he  had  his  "try-outs,"  when  the  patrons  of  the 
store  would  test  his  mettle  and  see  what  he  was  made  of, 
but  he  stood  well  under  fire  and  by  general  consent  was 
accepted  as  fit  to  be  recognized  as  "one  of  them/' 

The  village  doctor  sized  him  up  one  day,  soon  after 
Clarke  told  Ghent  that  the  drug  store  needed  just  such 
a  chap  as  he  would  prove  himself  to  be. 

"Well,  young  man,"  said  Doctor  Clark,  "You  don't 
seem  to  have  had  much  difficulty  in  landing  a  job." 

"I  allow,"  responded  Bascom,  "that  a  boy  who  is  will- 
ing to  curry  the  horses  before  breakfast  won't  have  any 
trouble  finding  a  job." 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  continued  the  doctor. 

"All  right,  sir.  I'll  like  any  job  I  git  till  I  git  a  better 
one." 

He  was  always  hunting  for  things  to  do.  One  day 
when  he  went  to  dinner  he  noticed  that  Mrs.  Ghent  was 
nearly  tired  out.  He  stopped  long  enough  to  help  her 
wash  the  dishes  before  he  went  back  to  the  store.  She 
demurred,  but  he  said : 

"You're  tired,  ma'am,  and  that's  what  my  mother 
would  want  me  to  do,  I  know." 

"God  bless  you,  my  boy,"  she  said,  and,  softly  pushing 
the  waving  lock  back  from  his  forehead,  she  kissed  him. 

He  went  back  to  the  store  glorified.  It  was  as  though 
his  mother's  hand  had  caressed  him  and  her  lips  had 
touched  him.  He  was  cleaner  in  mind  than  he  was  before 
he  went  to  the  house.  These  little  touches  of  human 
sympathy  meant  more  to  his  sensitive  nature  than  could 
be  measured  in  an  instant.  He  had  felt  so  utterly  alone 
that  a  kindly  word  or  act,  which  made  him  feel  that  he 

[125] 


was  worth  while  to  some  one  else  in  the  world,  lifted  him 
up  and  gave  him  strength  to  go  on  and  ambition  to  hope 
for  better  things  to  come. 

But  a  short  time  elapsed  before  he  knew  every  man, 
woman  and  child  in  the  village  and  the  surrounding  coun- 
try. Quick  in  thought  and  action,  with  a  fund  of  original 
humor  which  stood  him  in  good  stead ;  possessed  of  a  cer- 
tain intuition  which  enabled  him  to  judge  and  measure 
character ;  having  a  temper  that  flashed  up  like  gunpowder 
under  provocation,  and  subsided  just  as  quickly  as  soon 
the  explosion  was  over ;  tender  and  solicitous  for  the  weak 
and  generous  to  a  fault,  Clarke  came  to  his  own,  and  be- 
fore he  was  himself  aware  of  it  had  a  host  of  staunch 
friends. 

Full  of  life  and  energy,  the  intimate  relationship  of 
neighbor  to  neighbor  in  a  village,  gave  him  abundant 
opportunity  to  know  the  oddities  and  characteristics  of 
everybody.  The  spirit  of  mischief,  always  present,  had 
plenty  of  chance  for  expansion,  and  his  originality  in 
devising  unusual  methods  of  entertaining  himself  and 
others  is  talked  about  even  to  this  day. 

This  close  rubbing  up  against  people,  and  the  taxing 
of  his  ability  to  meet  the  varied  situations  which  were 
continually  presenting  themselves  were  of  great  service 
in  developing  and  rounding  out  his  life.  The  young  peo- 
ple at  first  looked  at  him  askance,  then  tolerated  him  and 
then  accepted  him  into  their  ranks.  The  down  began  to 
make  its  appearance  and  was  carefully  cultivated  and 
stimulated  to  do  its  utmost  to  make  a  respectable  showing 
on  his  upper  lip. 

Even  the  minister's  daughter,  one  of  the  prettiest  girls 
in  the  town,  thought  he  looked  good,  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  he  did.  He  had  reached  the  age  when  a  saucy  look 
from  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  will  create  havoc  with  the  most 
staid  and  sedate,  to  say  nothing  of  a  young  man  filled  to 
the  full  and  running  over  with  youthful  enthusiasm.  So 
when  the  minister's  daughter  laughed  a  challenge  to  him 
to  stroll  with  her  he  accepted  with  the  pride  of  accom- 
plishment which  can  only  be  likened  to  that  assumed  by 

[126] 


Alexander  when  he  had  conquered  the  whole  world.  He 
was  turned  to  a  dark  brown  from  his  work  in  the  sun  on 
the  farm,  and  especially  was  this  true  of  his  hands  and 
arms.  After  he  had  walked  home  with  the  young  maiden 
in  the  dusk  of  the  evening  and  while  he  sat  contentedly 
enjoying  his  conquest,  she  looked  at  his  hands  in  the  twi- 
light, and  said  innocently: 

"Why  don't  you  take  off  your  gloves,  Mr.  Clarke?" 

The  fall  of  the  walls  of  Jericho  could  not  have  been 
more  confusing  to  the  inhabitants  of  that  city  than  the 
demoralization  of  the  confident  assurance  of  Bascom  at 
this  sally.  He  stammered  out  an  explanation  of  some 
sort,  but  the  joy  of  the  visit  was  over.  For  once  the  flow 
of  conversation  on  his  part  was  dammed,  and  try  as  he 
would  he  could  not  find  a  place  to  put  his  hands,  and 
then  his  feet  gave  him  trouble  until  in  sheer  desperation 
he  betook  himself  home.  That  speech  may  have  cost  the 
young  lady  a  proposal  of  marriage,  for,  though  he  took 
her  to  places  afterwards  and  visited  at  the  house,  it  still 
rankled  enough  to  keep  him  from  going  beyond  certain 
well  defined  lines  of  conduct  with  her. 

Then,  one  Sunday,  there  came  into  the  village  for 
church  the  girl  of  the  oyster  supper.  She  was  daintily 
dressed  in  a  garment  of  soft  red,  with  a  parasol  to  match. 
He  saw  her  and  she  saw  him.  It  is  possible  he  would 
have  avoided  the  meeting  if  he  had  had  time  to  prepare 
himself,  but  they  met  face  to  face.  She  stopped  him  and 
said: 

"I  thought  you  told  me  you  were  coming  to  see  me." 

"I  was  coming,  but  I  didn't  want  to  go  to  see  anybody 
who  didn't  want  to  see  me." 

"Just  what  do  you  mean  by  this?  Didn't  I  tell  you  to 
come?  You  must  have  had  your  mind  so  full  of  other 
girls  that  you  didn't  stop  to  think  of  me  again.  I  don't 
think  it  is  playing  fair  to  ask  me  to  let  you  come  and  then 
have  me  sit  and  wait  for  you  until  I  have  to  believe  that 
you  didn't  want  to  come." 

Then  came  the  explanation.  It  took  several  hours,  and 
neither  seemed  to  begrudge  the  time.  They  strolled  down 

[127] 


the  railroad  track  to  a  spot  on  the  bank  of  the  creek,  and 
there  talked  it  out. 

"They  told  me  that  you  said  that  you  only  said  I  coind 
come  for  fun  and  that  if  I  did  you'd  show  me  the  door 
right  soon." 

"I  never  did." 

"And  I  thought  you  didn't  think  I  was  good  enough 
to  come  to  see  you,  and  I  guess  I  ain't,  however  much  I'd 
like  to." 

"I  never  had  such  a  thought.  If  I  hadn't  liked  you 
that  night  at  Captain  Waugh's  you  can  be  certain  I 
wouldn't  have  said  for  you  to  come." 

"And  I  knew  that  a  fellow  was  goin'  to  see  you  that 
had  money  and  I  didn  't  have  a  cent. ' ' 

"Whether  anybody  has  money  or  not  doesn't  make  any 
difference  in  my  friendship." 

"And  I  haven't  got  any  home  or  any  folks,  and  I 
thought  you  felt  I  was  only  a  bit  of  driftwood." 

"I  don't  have  to  have  a  family  tree  handed  to  me  by 
anyone  who  puts  any  value  on  my  friendship." 

"I've  thought  of  you  and  dreamed  of  you  all  the  time 
since  that  night." 

' '  Can  you  tell  me  how  I  was  going  to  know  that  if  you 
didn't  give  me  the  information  yourself.  I'm  neither  a 
mind  reader  nor  an  interpreter  of  untold  dreams.  If  you 
didn't  come  to  see  me  I  simply  had  to  believe  that  you 
didn't  want  to,  in  the  absence  of  any  other  explanation." 

"I  know  it,  and  it's  my  fault.  But  you  don't  know 
how  it  feels,  Belle,  to  have  everything  that's  given  to  you 
passed  over  like  you  would  give  pennies  to  a  beggar,  and 
have  people  look  at  you  and  treat  you  as  though  you  was 
a  pauper.  I  knew  that  when  Captain  Waugh  and  his  wife 
took  me  away  from  the  Smiths  they  did  it  out  of  pity. 
Maybe  I  looked  at  it  wrong,  and  probably  they  didn't 
look  on  it  as  charity.  But  I  felt  like  one  of  the  town  poor. 
And  I  didn't  dare  to  let  myself  think  that  you  would  pay 
any  attention  to  a  refugee  boy.  I  did  like  you,  and  I  did 
want  to  come  and  see  you  and  I  do  like  you  now  and  want 
to  come  and  see  you.  I  want  to  be  somebody.  I  don't 

[128] 


want  to  be  nothing  but  a  cipher  in  the  world,  and  I  am 
going  to  work  hard.  But  I  want  you  to  share  whatever 
I  have.  I  believe  if  I  could  know  that  there  was  hope 
that  you  would  marry  me  I  could  work  better  and  harder 
and  be  more  content  with  what  comes." 

' '  Marry  you !    It 's  too  soon  to  talk  of  that. ' ' 

"Nothing  is  too  soon  if  it's  right.  My  mind's  been 
made  up  a  long  time.  I  don't  have  to  have  time  to  mooch 
over  the  thing.  All  I  want  is  your  consent." 

"But,  Bascom,  think!  This  is  only  the  second  time 
you've  talked  to  me." 

"I  don't  care  if  it  was  only  the  first  time.  I  know  what 
I  want  and  I've  seen  enough  of  life  to  know  that  there 
ain't  no  home  without  a  woman.  If  you  think  I  don't 
know  all  about  you  because  I  haven't  been  to  see  you, 
you  are  muchly  mistaken.  I'm  just  as  certain  now  as  I 
will  be  ten  years  from  now.  You  can't  live  in  a  town 
like  this  and  not  know  the  people.  Don't  you  suppose 
your  goin's  and  comin's  have  been  watched  by  me  all  the 
time?  I  know  what  you've  been  doing  and  where  you've 
been,  and  who  with.  And  I  haven't  been  hidin'  my  light 
under  a  bushel.  I  may  not  have  been  always  right,  but  I've 
never  been  a  sneak.  What  I've  done  I  have  done  in  the 
open,  and  everybody  can  judge  whether  I  am  square  or 
not.  If  you  think  I'm  not  right — " 

"Oh,  no,  I  didn't  think  anything  of  the  kind." 

"And  you  don't  care  if  I  am  poor?" 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  poverty." 

"Then,  why  don't  you  tell  me  you'll  marry  me,"  and 
have  done  with  it?" 

"Because  it's  too  serious  a  matter  to  decide  offhand 
like  this." 

"Not  if  it's  the  right  thing  to  do.  You've  thought  of 
me  some,  haven't  you?" 

""Why,  yes,  of  course." 

"And  you've  thought  that  some  time  I  might  ask  you  to 
marry  me,  haven't  you?" 

' '  Why,  what  a  question ! ' ' 

"Well,  you  have,  haven't  you?" 
9  [129] 


' '  What  reason  have  you  for  thinking  that  f ' ' 

"I'm  not  hunting  for  reasons!  I'm  chasm'  facts.  You 
have,  haven't  you?" 

"Well,  it  seems  to  me  a  girl  would  be  mighty  foolish 
to  be  thinking  a  fellow  would  ask  her  to  marry  him  when 
he  wouldn't  even  come  to  see  her." 

"You're  dodgin'  the  question,  Miss  Watkins.  I've 
asked  it  several  times." 

"You  had  no  right  to  ask  it,  and  I  don't  have  to  an- 
swer. 

"That's  enough.  You  have  thought  it  or  you'd  'a' 
popped  out  a  big  'No!'  long  before  this.  Now,  if  I've 
thought  of  it  all  this  time,  and  you've  thought  of  it  all 
this  time — " 

"I  told  you  I  hadn't  said  I  thought  it." 

"I  know.    Now,  assuming  these  things — " 

"But  you  haven't  any  right  to  assume." 

"As  I  said  before,  assuming  these  things,  why  should 
it  be  necessary  for  me  to  wait  five  or  six  months  or  a  year 
before  I  take  with  me  back  to  my  work  the  feeling  that 
if  I  do  win  out  in  the  world  you'll  be  part  of  the  scheme. 
I  ain't  had  much  of  what  I  wanted  in  this  world,  girlie, 
and  I  don't  believe  you  have  the  heart  to  deny  me  this 
one  hope  which  means  more  to  me  than  I  can  tell  you. 
Tell  me  this,  Belle,  please,  because  it  will  do  more  for  me 
now  than  anything  else :  If  I  go  on  working  and  trying 
to  climb  up  the  mountain  side  of  life,  though  the  road  is 
hard  and  rough  and  tiresome,  can  I  look  forward  to  the 
time  when  you  '11  put  your  hand  in  mine  and  go  with  me  ? ' ' 

There  was  no  answer.  The  girl  was  studying  the 
ground. 

"I  haven't  any  mother,  Belle,  dear,  and  no  one  to  care 
whether  I  live  or  die.  I  haven't  any  folks  and  a  fellow 
without  folks  is  a  pretty  lonesome  cuss.  I  want  you.  I 
haven't  any  highfalutin'  language  to  throw  at  you  and  I 
wouldn't  use  it  if  I  had  it  because  you've  got  too  much 
sense  to  listen  to  it.  I'm  so  poor  that  the  shadow  of  a 
ten  dollar  bill  would  make  me  feel  rich.  But  I  ain  't  afraid 
of  the  futur*  if  I've  got  somebody  to  work  for.  God 
won't  deny  me  fair  wages  if  I'm  square  and  I'm  just  as 

[130] 


sure  that  He  sent  you  to  me  as  that  I  am  sitting  here. 
Why  else  should  He  have  put  me  through  all  this  hard- 
ship and  sufferin'  and  brought  me  here,  then  send  you  to 
Captain  Waugh's  and  prompt  you  to  pick  me  out  of  all 
the  rest,  and  then  pilot  you  to  meet  me  this  afternoon? 
I  ain't  never  doubted  Him  since  the  days  of  my  dear  old 
grandmother,  and  I  ain't  doubtin'  Him  now.  So  far's 
I'm  concerned  it's  all  settled  now,  and  I'm  only  waitin' 
for  you  to  agree.  There  ain't  no  use  talkin' — I  gotta  have 
you,  Belle.  I  just  wish  you  could  feel  a  little  bit  that  you 
might  like  to  come.  I'd  feel  better.  Say!  Tell  me: 
You're  goin'  to  say  yes,  ain't  you?" 

"Say  'Yes'  to  what?" 

"To  all  I've  been  asking  you.  You  will  marry  me, 
won't  you?" 

"Why—" 

"No  'whys,'  but  you  will,  won't  you?  Say  'Yes'!  darn 
it,  say 'Yes'!" 

"Well, 'Yes, 'then." 

With  a  whoop,  Bascom  jumped  to  his  feet  and,  in  his 
excitement,  grabbed  her  open  parasol  and,  waving  it 
around  his  head,  threw  it  into  the  creek.  Then  he  hauled 
out  a  revolver  and  shot  it  full  of  holes  before  it  sank  out 
of  sight. 

This  almost  caused  a  rescission  of  the  consent  on  the 
part  of  the  future  Mrs.  Clarke,  but  the  ebullition  of  spir- 
its was  so  genuine  and  his  joy  so  apparent  that,  coupled 
as  it  was  with  immediate  repentant  dismay,  she  forgave 
him.  She  made  him  sit  down  again,  and  they  talked  long 
and  earnestly  concerning  the  things  to  be  accomplished 
before  it  would  be  possible  for  them  to  be  married.  Their 
newly  established  relationship  was  to  be  a  secret  between 
themselves  until  such  time  as  it  should  be  wise  to  dis- 
close it. 

After  he  had  taken  her  to  her  aunt's  house  in  the  village 
Bascom  went  back  to  town  with  his  head  high  in  the  air, 
and  it  never  came  down  again.  He  had  won  his  first  great 
victory  in  the  battle  of  life  and  one  which  he  knew  then 
meant  the  obtaining  of  the  promise  of  the  absolute  sinews 
of  war  in  the  conflict,  a  good  wife. 

[131] 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Father  and  Mother  Watkins  were  not  very  favorably 
impressed  with  the  idea  of  a  union  of  the  houses  of  Clarke 
and  Watkins.  At  least  that  is  what  might  be  gathered 
from  the  reception  given  by  them  of  the  news  that  Belle 
had  been  seen  in  company  with  the  young  drug  clerk. 
Their  prejudice  and  protest  were  shared  in  by  the  other 
members  of  the  family,  resulting  in  decided  discomfort 
for  the  lady  most  concerned. 

"What  you  doin'  'round  with  'Doc  Smith,'  Belle?" 
asked  Pa  Watkins. 

"His  name  ain't  Smith,  Pa.  It's  Clarke.  I've  told  you 
that  before." 

"I  don't  care  what  his  name  is,  but  he's  a  piece  of  trash 
that  Old  Man  Smith  brought  up  here  from  nobody  knows 
where,  and  you  don't  know  anything  about  him,  or  who 
h.e  is,  yet  you  go  trapsin'  'round  with  him,  I  understand." 

"Yes,  I've  been  with  him  twice,  and  I  presume  I'll  go 
with  him  some  more." 

"Why,  Belle!"  said  the  mother. 

"Now,  don't  side  with  Pa  in  his  abuse,  Mother.  He 
don't  know  Mr.  Clarke." 

"No,  an'  I  don't  want  to  know  him,  nuther, "  sullenly 
defended  Watkins,  pater. 

"That  ain't  fair,  Dad,  and  you  know  it.  I  know  enough 
about  him  to  know  that  I'm  happy  with  him  and  I  ain't 
happy  with  anybody  else,  and  I'll  bank  on  his  bein' 
right." 

"But,  Belle,"  mildly  interposed  the  mother,  "He's  a 
nobody  and  there's — " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say  and  who 
you  mean.  You've  been  throwing  him  at  me  or  rather 
me  at  him  for  years,  just  because  he  has  money.  I  sup- 
pose you'd  like  to  say,  'Yes,  that's  our  daughter,  the  wife 

[132] 


of  so-and-so.  He's  very  wealthy  and  comes  of  one  of  the 
oldest  families  in  Indiana." 

"Belle,  don't  forgit  yourself!"  sharply  interposed  Mrs. 
Watkins. 

"I  ain't  forgetting.  Haven't  I  had  him  served  up  to 
me  for  breakfast,  dinner  and  supper?  And  haven't  you 
made  icebergs  out  of  yourselves  every  time  any  other 
young  man  has  come  into  the  house  with  me.  The  trouble 
is  you've  got  your  hearts  set  on  me  marrying  your  pick- 
out,  and  as  I'm  the  most  interested  party  I  prefer  to  pick 
out  my  own  husband." 

"You're  showin'  mighty  poor  jedgment,"  added  the 
father. 

"I  presume  the  same  words  are  familiar  to  Ma  as 
having  been  said  when  she  picked  you  out,  but  I'll  bet 
she  stood  pat." 

"Now,  Belle,  that  ain't  no  way  to  talk  to  your  father," 
broke  in  the  mother,  though  if  one  looked  sharply  he  could 
have  seen  a  flood  of  recollection  lighten  her  countenance. 

"Well,  it's  the  truth,  for  I've  heard  you  say  yourself 
that  your  folks  tried  to  keep  you  from  marrying  Pa,  'cause 
they  thought  he  wasn't  good  enough  for  you.  And  yet 
he  and  you  and  all  of  you  are  poking  in  my  affairs  just  as 
though  you  hadn't  been  there  yourself." 

"But,  Belle,  we're  doin'  it  for  your  own  good,"  de- 
fended the  mother. 

"Oh,  don't  argify  with  her,  Mother,"  put  in  Pa  Wat- 
kins.  ' '  She 's  like  all  the  rest  of  the  girls  nowadays.  They 
take  the  bit  in  their  teeth  and  ain't  got  no  respect  for 
their  elders  and  don't  want  none  of  their  advice." 

"Now,  that  ain't  fair  to  me,  Pa.  Ever  since  I've  been 
old  enough  I've  worked  and  scrubbed  and  been  in  the 
fields  and  helped  every  way  I  could,  and  you've  told  me 
yourself  I  was  as  goad  as  a  man  about  the  place.  But 
that  was  when  I  was  a  piece  of  machinery  savin'  you 
money.  Nobody  has  ever  had  any  reason  to  say  anything 
against  me,  and  I  have  played  the  dutiful  daughter  role 
to  the  limit.  I've  never  refused  to  do  anything  you  asked 
me.  The  trouble  is  you  haven't  found  out  that  I've  grown 

[133] 


up.  I'm  old  enough  to  judge  things  from  a  woman's 
standpoint,  as  my  mother  judged  them  for  herself,  and  so 
far  as  this  particular  matter  is  concerned  I  only  ask  that 
you  let  me  be  judge,  as  I  will  be  the  only  one  to  suffer  if 
I  make  a  mistake." 

"Well,  keep  him  away  from  here.  I  don't  want  noth- 
ing to  do  with  him.  You  make  your  own  bed  and  you  lie 
in  it.  I  wash  my  hands  of  it."  Thus  Pa  Watkins  ended 
the  discussion  that  time.  But  it  was  renewed  over  and 
over. 

Meanwhile  Bascom  was  paying  court  like  an  old-timer 
at  the  game.  He  borrowed  Dave  Ball's  horse  and  buggy 
and  Sunday  afternoons  they  had  long  drives,  talking  those 
things  which  are  not  essential  to  be  made  public,  but 
which  can  be  imagined  by  those  of  experience  and 
dreamed  by  those  yet  to  pass  through  the  gate  of  love. 
Always,  however,  the  drives  began  and  ended  at  the  house 
of  the  aunt  in  the  village.  And  even  here  Clarke  seldom 
got  beyond  the  threshold. 

"I  don't  want  to  have  any  trouble  with  your  folks, 
Belle,"  said  the  aunt,  "So  while  I  sympathize  with  you. 
I  don't  think  it  best  to  let  you  do  your  courtin'  in  my 
house.  It  don't  look  right." 

Bascom  insisted  on  going  to  her  home  to  see  her,  but 
she  kept  him  away  on  one  pretext  or  another,  until  one 
evening  he  refused  to  leave  her  at  the  gate  and  followed 
her  into  the  house. 

"I  may  as  well  brave  this  storm  first  as  last,  Belle," 
he  said.  "I  gather  from  your  actions  that  the  folks  ain't 
takin'  very  kindly  to  the  condition  of  affairs.  But  if  I'm 
goin'  to  marry  the  daughter  I  at  least  ought  to  have  an 
introduction  to  the  father  and  mother." 

So  he  went  into  the  house.  The  father  acknowledged 
the  introduction  with  a  grunt,  and  the  mother  with  a  nod. 
Then  a  funereal  silence  ensued.  Clarke,  usually  full  of 
conversational  topics  and  bent  on  making  a  good  impres- 
sion, made  various  and  widely  divergent  essays  to  open 
an  exchange  of  civilties.  But  for  once  his  diplomatic  and 
breezy  overtures  were  fruitless.  Not  an  observation  of 

[134] 


any  kind  could  he  obtain.  An  area  of  low  pressure  was 
present,  and  his  conversational  barometer  began  to  drop 
until  he  finally  gave  up  and  scudded  under  close  reefed 
sail  for  his  home  harbor.  Telling  about  it  afterwards  to 
his  best  girl,  he  said: 

''It  reminded  me,  Belle,  of  the  story  of  the  tramp 
printer,  who  got  drunk  and  invaded  the  printing  office, 
demanding  work.  The  foreman  kicked  him  down  the  first 
flight  of  stairs,  the  pressman  helped  him  vigorously  to  the 
next  landing,  the  editor  fired  him  to  the  ground  floor, 
where  the  office  boy  threw  him  into  the  street.  As  he 
scraped  the  mud  off  himself  and  rubbed  the  sore  spots 
he  turned  around  and  said :  '  I  know  what  the  matter  is 
with  those  fellers.  They  don't  want  me  in  there.'  I'm 
firmly  convinced,  after  patient  investigation,  that  the  folks 
don't  want  me  in  there." 

"I  didn't  want  you  to  go,  Bascom,  and  I've  tried  all  the 
time  to  keep  you  away.  I  knew  just  how  it  would  be." 

"Oh,  don't  you  mind,  little  girl.  I  don't.  I've  done 
my  duty,  and  you've  done  yours.  I  would  rather  have 
had  their  blessing  and  a  '  God-bless-you ! '  but  if  they  don 't 
feel  it  we'll  have  to  make  the  best  of  it.  If  we  fall  down, 
Belle,  in  making  our  way  in  the  world  they  can  sit  back 
and  say  they  didn't  have  any  hand  in  the  affair  nor  lend 
any  encouragement  to  it." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  she  said,  as  the  tears  of  mortifi- 
cation and  humliation  came  in  spite  of  her  fortitude  and 
determination  not  to  cry. 

"Never  mind,  girlie.  Don't  cry.  Let's  be  brave.  It's 
not  the  first  rebuff  I've  met,  nor  probably  will  it  be  the 
last.  I  have  told  you,  haven't  I,  about  my  old  grand- 
mother, down  south?  When  I  was  a  little  chap  she  told 
me :  '  Honey,  nevah  doubt  Him.  There  will  come  days 
when  you  think  He  has  deserted  you;  when  you'll  wonder 
why  you  can't  find  Him.  Pray  to  Him,  Bascom — pray 
with  all  youah  min'  and  strength,  and  the  light  will 
come.  I  want  you  to  be  a  good  man,  Bascom.'  I  couldn't 
have  come  this  far  on  the  road,  with  all  the  troubles  I've 
had,  if  it  handn't  been  for  this  simple  faith  that  God  will 

[135] 


order  all  things  for  good  finally.  I  ain't  afraid,  Belle,  are 
you?" 

"No,  I'm  not  afraid.  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  could  have 
known  your  folks.  God-fearing  and  God-loving  people 
like  that  are  genuine.  There  ain't  any  room  for  sham." 

"I  wish  you  could  have  known  'em,  too,  Belle.  I  know 
we  would  have  had  their  blessing.  Maybe,  maybe  they're 
looking  down  from  up  there  and  helping  us."  His  voice 
broke  and  he  murumured,  "Mother,  oh,  Mother,  how  I've 
longed  for  you!" 

Quick  came  the  touch  of  the  woman  God  had  given  to 
him,  with  her  love  and  sympathy: 

"Don't,  honey!  She's  happy,  and  I'll  do  everything  1 
can  to  make  up  to  you  for  her  loss.  And  I  feel  her  bless- 
ing now,  just  as  you  do.  We  won't  mind  what  folks  say  or 
do.  We'll  have  each  other  and  the  world  can  stay  on  the 
outside  if  it  wants  to." 

' '  God  bless  the  day,  girlie,  when  you  came  into  my  life. 
Yes,  we'll  fight  the  battle  together,  and  never  fail  in  our 
trust." 

Thus  time  went  along,  and  the  mutual  confidence  and 
understanding  between  the  two  grew  and  ripened.  The 
opposition  in  the  Watkins  home  was  unabated.  With 
ridicule  and  inuendo  they  sought  to  break  the  girl's  will, 
but  patiently,  uncomplainingly  she  bore  it  all.  The  firm 
conviction  that  she  was  taking  the  right  path  gave  her 
strength  to  go  through  to  the  end. 

In  the  meantime  Bascom  was  earnestly  striving  to  find 
some  opening  whereby  he  could  increase  his  income.  Five 
dollars  a  week  looked  mighty  small.  Just  at  this  time,  how- 
ever, life  at  home  was  being  made  almost  unbearable  for 
Belle,  and  her  depression  resulted  in  action  on  the  part 
of  Bascom,  somewhat  impulsive,  it  must  be  confessed,  but 
such  action  as  he  deemed  justifiable  under  the  circum- 
stances. 

After  much  persuasion  he  induced  Miss  Watkins  to  con- 
sent to  an  immediate  marriage. 

"But  how  will  we  live,  Bascom?"  she  asked. 

[136] 


"It'll  have  to  be  one  of  those  cases  where  the  'Lord 
will  provide.'  I'm  going  to  throw  judgment  to  the  four 
winds,  for  once,  and  take  a  long  shot  based  entirely  on 
my  faith  in  God.  You  ain't  happy  the  way  things  are, 
and  I  've  promised,  you  know,  to  try  and  bring  you  happi- 
ness. Will  you  do  it?" 

With  a  feeling  that  she  had  reached  the  full  limit  of 
her  endurance,  and  that  her  happiness  could  only  be  at- 
tained by  such  a  step,  she  yielded.  There  could  be  no 
hope  of  a  reconciliation  such  as  would  permit  of  her  mar- 
riage at  home,  so  their  plans  were  made  accordingly. 

Dave  Ball  had  just  bought  a  new  buggy.  He  had  prom- 
ised himself  and  everybody  within  hearing  that  this  buggy 
was  not  to  be  hired  or  loaned  to  anyone,  on  any  occasion. 

"I  paid  a  hundred  and  a  quarter  for  that  buggy,"  he 
said,  "and  I've  bought  it  for  my  private  use.  I've  loaned 
and  hired  out  every  other  rig  I  ever  possessed  to  every 
Tom,  Dick  and  Harry,  and  they've  made  every  one  of 
them  look  like  a  wreck.  This  one  don't  go  to  anyone,  so 
you  needn't  ask  for  it." 

"Doc"  approached  him  one  day  and  took  him  off  to  one 
side: 

"Dave,  I  want  to  borrow  your  buggy!" 

"What  the — !  Say,  young  man,  didn't  you  hear  my 
statement  that  I  wouldn't  let  anybody  have  it?" 

"Yes,  I  did,  Dave.  But  you'd  let  it  go  on  a  sort  of  life 
or  death  matter,  wouldn't  you?" 

"Life  or  death  matter.  You  ain't  got  no  life  or  death 
matter  on  hand." 

"Yes,  I  have,  Dave.  I'm  going  to  get  married,  and  in 
the  strained  condition  of  my  finances  I  don't  know  of 
anything  that  could  be  nearer  to  a  life  and  death  proposi- 
tion than  that,  do  you?" 

Dave  opened  his  mouth  in  wonderment. 

' '  Going  to  get  married !    Who  to  ? " 

"Belle  Watkins." 

"Belle  Watkins!  Why,  her  old  man  would  skin  ye 
alive." 

[137] 


"Well,  I've  got  to  take  that  chance,  Dave.  Will  you 
let  me  have  the  buggy?" 

' '  I  admire  your  nerve,  not  only  in  this  buggy  business, 
but  in  landin'  that  girl  as  a  life  partner  right  from  under 
the  old  man's  nose.  I  thought  he  had  different  arrange- 
ments for  her. ' ' 

"He  did  have,  perhaps,  but  the  girl's  for  me.  Can  I 
have  that  buggy?" 

"I  allus  did  think  that  girl  had  a  min'  of  her  own,  and 
I  ain't  sayin'  that  she  is  lackin'  in  judgment.  Though 
she's  takin'  a  mighty  long  chance,  ain't  she,  Doc?" 

"Success  in  life's  made  up  of  long  chances,  usually, 
Dave.  Can  I  have  that  buggy?" 

"So  you're  goin'  to  marry  Belle  Watkins.  Great  Scott ! 
Is  she  grown  up?  I  can  hardly  believe  it.  Where  you 
goin'  to  live?" 

"I  haven't  got  that  far  yet,  Dave.  My  mind  has  been 
taken  up  with  more  weighty  problems.  Can  I  have  that 
buggy?" 

"All  my  life  I've  been  doin'  things  I  said  I  wouldn't, 
just  to  be  accommodatin'.  Now,  I'm  going  to  stick  to  this 
one  promise  I've  made  myself  that  this  buggy  is  not  to 
be  loaned." 

"Oh,  Dave,  I've  just  gotta  have  it.  It  means  everything 
to  me." 

"I  said,  didn't  I,  that  this  buggy  is  not  to  be  loaned  or 
hired  to  anyone;  that  it  was  for  my  own  private  use!" 
thundered  Dave.  "Well,  I  mean  what  I  say!"  Then  he 
added,  after  the  illy  concealed  disappointment  had  settled 
on  Clarke's  face,  "But  of  course  the  barn  door  is  un- 
locked, and  I  can't  help  it  if  some  one  goes  in  and  gets 
the  buggy  without  my  consent  and  uses  it  especially  for 
the  purpose  of  getting  married.  I  presume  I  wouldn't 
feel  called  upon  to  prosecute  them  if  the  buggy  was  back 
there  in  the  barn  after  it  had  served  its  purpose." 

Clarke  was  off  like  a  meteor,  the  buggy  disappeared 
for  the  day,  the  knot  was  tied  so  that  it  hasn't  even 
slipped  since,  and  the  parties  most  intimately  concerned 
returned  to  let  the  news  trickle  to  the  waiting  curiosity 

[138] 


of  the  town.  Consternation  reigned  at  the  Watkins  home- 
stead. The  father  declared  that  the  "young  whippersnap- 
per"  should  never  cross  his  threshold.  This  news  was 
conveyed  to  Belle  by  members  of  the  family,  who  were 
nonplussed  by  her  reply: 

"Well,  that  bars  me  from  home,  then,  for  I  won't  go 
until  iny  husband  can  go  with  me." 

Thus  things  ran  along  for  some  little  time.  The  mother 
pined  for  her  daughter,  and  the  daughter  wanted  to  see 
her  mother  and  talk  to  her  of  her  happiness.  But  the 
father  stubbornly  refused  to  yield  and  the  daughter  stuck 
to  her  imposed  condition.  The  mother  love  finally  con- 
quered. 

Watkins  stopped  his  team  in  front  of  Ghent's  one  day. 
His  hitherto  unrecognized  son-in-law  came  out  and  with 
a  cheery  nod  unchecked  the  animals  so  that  they  might 
reach  the  tank  for  a  drink.  It  was  a  thing  he  had  done 
many  times  before.  His  love  for  animals  made  him  go 
out  in  front  any  time  he  happened  to  be  idle,  and  pet  the 
horses  of  the  farmers  as  they  drove  up  to  the  town  pump, 
and  assist  them  to  get  at  the  water,  pumping  the  tank  full 
for  them  if  the  water  happened  to  be  low. 

Watkins  seemed  to  be  struggling  with  his  lingual  appa- 
ratus, but  finally,  in  the  first  tone  of  civility  with  which 
he  had  spoken  to  Bascom,  said: 

' '  Belle 's  mother  wants  her  to  come  up  to  the  house  and 
see  us. ' ' 

"Well,  I've  told  her  to  go.  I  think  she  ought  to  go 
and  see  her  mother.  We  don't  have  but  one  mother." 

"Belle  says  she  won't  come  unless  you  do!" 

"She  needn't  feel  that  way.  You're  her  folks  and  it's 
very  plain  I'm  not.  Tell  her  to  go  as  far  as  I'm  con- 
cerned. It'll  do  both  her  and  her  mother  good." 

"But  she  won't  come  'thout  you,  and  so  you-all  mought 
as  well  come,  too." 

"Am  I  to  consider  that  as  an  invitation  to  come  up, 
Mr.  Watkins?" 

"Well,  I  presume  that's  what  it  amounts  to.  I  can't 
stand  her  mother  cryin'  all  the  time,  and  it's  all  laid  on 


me.  What's  did  can't  be  undid,  and  we  mought's  well 
make  the  best  on  it.  So,  you-all  better  come  up." 
"Tell  Belle's  mother  we'll  be  up  to-night." 
The  mother  and  daughter  had  their  arms  around  each 
other  and  were  crying  in  concert,  the  old  man  blew  his 
nose  with  the  sound  of  a  Mississippi  River  steamer  whist- 
ling for  a  landing.  The  sisters  choked  up  and  sobbed. 
The  cause  of  all  this  disturbance  stood  awkwardly  by, 
waiting  for  a  calm  in  the  storm  whereby  he  might  dis- 
cover a  stray  bit  of  sunshine.  The  old  man,  having  seen 
these  kinds  of  gales  before,  silently  motioned  to  Bascom 
to  go  with  him,  and  they  went  out  to  the  barn  where  the 
conversation  turned  upon  the  condition  of  the  crops  and 
other  safe  topics  by  which  men  get  acquainted. 


[HO] 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A  civil  engineer,  laying  out  the  line  of  a  projected  rail- 
road, can  cause  more  grief  innocently  than  the  worker  in 
any  other  occupation  except  that  of  a  minister  of  the 
gospel.  The  minister  says  the  few  words,  "I  pronounce 
you  man  and  wife, ' '  and  sets  in  motion  forces  over  which 
neither  he  nor  the  gods  have  control  afterwards.  The 
surveyor  wiggles  his  transit  a  little  this  way  or  that  and 
recks  not  of  the  consequences,  but  raises  and  destroys 
towns  in  the  operation,  separates  a  man  from  his  front 
door-yard,  takes  away  his  home,  drives  the  cattle  out  of 
their  favorite  pasture  and  causes  a  general  readjustment 
to  extremely  changed  conditions. 

So  it  came  about  that  by  a  slight  twist  to  his  surveying 
instrument  the  chap  laying  the  level  for  the  new  Van- 
dalia  line  swung  several  hundred  feet  to  the  north  of  the 
village  of  Colfax  to  avoid  having  to  fill  a  tract  of  low 
land  and  at  the  same  time  get  a  satisfactory  location  for 
the  crossing  of  the  Big  Four  tracks.  He  went  on  his  way 
toward  the  east,  but  he  left  a  trail  of  trouble  in  the  town 
that  broke  friendships,  cancelled  engagements  to  marry, 
divided  families,  blasted  hopes,  and  nearly  caused  blood- 
shed. At  the  time  no  protest  was  made;  in  fact,  it  was 
deemed  an  advantage  rather  than  a  detriment  to  have  the 
new  noise  and  confusion  removed  that  far  from  the  im- 
mediate vicinity  of  the  town. 

Old  Doctor  Clark  owned  the  land  adjacent  to  the  new 
right-of-way,  including  the  swamp  with  its  ''pussy  wil- 
lows," bogs  and  cat-tails.  He  had  a  vision  one  day,  went 
over  to  Thorntown  and  brought  back  the  county  sur- 
veyor, who,  after  looking  over  the  ground  carefully,  laid 
out  the  plat  of  an  addition  to  Colfax.  Then  the  wise  ones 
held  the  doctor  up  to  ridicule,  and  jibed  him  about  laying 
out  town  lots  for  the  frogs  and  getting  ready  to  build 

[141] 


houses  for  the  mosquitos.  But  he  kept  his  peace  and 
went  on  with  the  work.  The  frogs  seemed  to  be  the  only 
ones  who  took  him  seriously,  and  they  discussed  the  mat- 
ter long  and  loud  every  night,  while  the  village  people 
laughed  at  the  noise  made  by  the  inhabitants  of  "Doc 
Clark's  City." 

Things  conspired,  however,  to  help  the  enterprise.  The 
first  really  important  move  was  made  by  the  two  rail- 
roads. In  a  spirit  of  economy  the  Big  Four  and  the  Van- 
dalia  line  built  a  joint  station  at  the  crossing  of  the  lines, 
that  one  agent  might  attend  to  the  affairs  of  both  compa- 
nies. This  required  the  inhabitants  to  walk  a  little  far- 
ther in  the  pursuit  of  their  daily  avocation  of  going  to 
the  "depot"  to  see  the  trains  come  in,  but  it  was  not 
looked  on  as  a  special  menace  to  tranquility. 

Then  along  came  E.  H.  Johnson,  a  fellow  who  had  made 
his  money  in  California  during  the  gold  excitement  of 
"forty-nine,"  and  who,  since  that  time,  had  been  a  suc- 
cessful merchant.  He  had  recently  sold  out  his  business 
in  one  of  the  other  towns  in  Indiana  and  was  looking  for 
a  new  location.  Following  the  new  railroad  he  had  dropped 
into  Colfax. 

The  "Commercial  Club"  did  not  welcome  him,  and  he 
received  no  encouragement  to  remain.  There  were  mer- 
chants enough.  In  fact  the  people  then  in  the  town  would 
be  sufficient  to  transact  all  the  business  which  might  be 
attracted  by  the  new  means  of  communication.  Being  on 
the  ground  they  looked  on  all  outside  capital  seeking  in- 
vestment as  poaching  on  their  preserves,  unless  said  out- 
side capital  would  be  content  to  leave  itself  in  the  hands 
"of  the  original  inhabitants  and  go  on  about  its  business. 
There  were  no  store  buildings  to  be  rented,  and  the  pat- 
ronage of  the  town  would  not  warrant  the  construction 
of  any  more. 

Dr.  Clark,  however,  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 
He  invited  Johnson  to  take  a  ride  with  him.  This  was  a 
signal  for  much  hilarity  on  the  part  of  the  old-timers. 
There  was  an  immediate  call  of  the  roll  in  Ghent's  drug- 
store for  the  purpose  of  commenting  on  th«  probability 

[142] 


of  Clark's  "soaking"  the  stranger  with  some  of  his  bog 
property. 

"Well,"  said  Marion  Fitch,  "if  he  buys  in  that  there 
swamp  he'll  buy  with  his  eyes  open,  for  'Doc's'  taken  him 
there  in  broad  daylight." 

' '  He  had  to  take  him  in  the  daylight  to  pick  out  the  dry 
places  to  stand  on  when  they  viewed  the  landscape,"  said 
another. 

"I  hear  the  feller  wants  to  run  a  store,"  chimed  in  John 
Girt. 

"If  he  does  he'd  better  have  a  supply  o'  stilts  for  his 
customers  to  cross  the  ditch  on,"  volunteered  Bartholo- 
mew, the  undertaker. 

"Oh,  no!"  answered  the  hardware  dealer,  "By  the  time 
he  gets  any  customers  over  there  they'll  have  flyin'  ma- 
chines invented." 

"He  won't  have  any  trouble  gettin'  all  the  greenbacks 
he  wants  from  his  nearest  neighbors,"  said  the  village 
joker,  following  his  sally  with  a  fair  imitation  of  a  croak- 
ing frog. 

This  being  the  place  always  set  forth  in  the  program 
for  laughter,  everybody  indulged. 

"Don't  you  suppose  'Doc'  Clark  knows  what  he's 
about?"  inquired  Bascom. 

"Course  he  knows  what  he's  about,  and  I  hopes  he  gets 
some  dough  out  of  the  stranger.  He  ain  't  afraid  to  loosen 
up  when  he's  got  it,"  said  John  Ghent. 

"I  don't  know  that  it's  hardly  right  for  him  to  palm 
those  worthless  lots  off  on  a  stranger,"  remarked  the 
minister. 

"Oh,  that  feller's  got  his  eye  teeth  cut,  all  right,"  an" 
swered  the  undertaker.  "He  ain't  no  spring  chicken.  If 
you  pi'nt  out  the  ring-bones  and  spavins  to  the  cuss  and 
he  hears  the  horse  heave,  and  then  wants  to  buy,  let  him 
have  it.  Same  here.  'Doc's' taken  him  over  with  the  sun 
shinin',  an'  if  the  feller  thinks  he  can  make  a  metropolis 
out  o'  a  frog  pond  let  Mm  go  to  it,  I  say." 

"They  built  Chicago  in  a  swamp,  didn't  they?"  said 
Basoom. 

[143] 


"Well,  Sheecawgo  is  Sheecawgo  and  Coif  ax  is  Coif  ax, 
that's  all  there  is  to  that,"  said  the  hardware  man. 
"They's  plenty  o'  good  land  west  and  south  and  east, 
without  goin'  across  that  ditch  to  build.  'Tain't  none  o' 
my  funeral,  howsumdever,  and  I  say,  let  him  buy  if  he 
wants  to." 

Somebody  called  the  undertaker  to  come  across  the 
street  to  his  store,  and  with  the  possibility  of  selling  a 
high  chair  for  the  new  baby  he  departed  and  the  con- 
ference was  at  an  end. 

When  Doctor  Clark  returned  from  his  drive  with  the 
stranger  he  was  non-committal  over  the  result  of  his  ne- 
gotiations, but  it  was  apparent  from  his  countenance  that 
he  was  not  at  all  discouraged. 

"How'd  you  make  out,  Doc?"  asked  John  Ghent,  when 
the  store  was  empty. 

"Oh,  he's  thinking  the  matter  over,"  said  the  Doctor. 
"I'll  probably  hear  from  him  later.  Better  buy  some  lots 
over  there,  John." 

"Not  me,"  responded  Ghent  with  a  laugh.  "This  place 
is  good  enough  for  me." 

"Maybe  so,  but  you  might  not  be  making  a  bad  invest- 
ment at  that." 

"Oh,  come  off,  Doc,  you  don't  think  for  a  minute  that 
anybody  with  any  sense  is  going  to  go  'cross  that  ditch 
to  make  a  town ! ' ' 

"Stranger  things  have  happened,  John,  and  I  wouldn't 
be  surprised  if  there  was  quite  a  collection  of  people  on 
the  other  side  after  awhile,  together  with  some  good  busi- 
ness houses." 

"Haw!  Haw!  Business  houses!  Why,  you're  dream- 
in',  Doc.  If  you  keep  on  you'll  be  one  o'  these  reg'lar 
real  estate  men  what  kin  see  a  hundred  thousand  popula- 
tion in  a  two  thousand  town  without  closin'  his  eyes." 

As  Ghent  turned  away  to  attend  to  a  customer,  the  old 
doctor  put  the  question  to  Bascom: 

"How  about  you,  Clarke?    Are  you  going  to  invest?" 

"My  ship  hasn't  come  in  yet,  Doctor,  and  I  can't  buy, 
but  I'll  bank  on  your  judgment." 

[144] 


"Never  mind,  son,  keep  your  eyes  open  and  don't  tell 
everybody  your  business  and  your  ship  will  come  into 
port.  Just  remember  that  the  fruit  along  the  beaten  path 
is  usually  picked  pretty  clean.  If  a  fellow  calls  you  a 
fool  for  doing  something  you've  worked  out  yourself  in- 
stead of  imitating  someone  else,  just  keep  plugging  along 
and  wait.  The  fellow  that  called  you  a  fool  will  swell  all 
out  of  shape  because  he  knew  you  when  you  were  poor, 
and  go  shouting  to  the  world  what  a  genius  you  are,  and 
that  he  always  knew  you  were  destined  to  succeed." 

Johnson  was  in  town  quite  often  after  that,  and  finally 
the  "knockers'  club"  was  amazed  to  find  an  unusual  stir 
on  the  other  side  of  the  ditch.  Brick  walls  and  chimneys 
began  to  make  their  appearance  until  quite  a  pretentious 
aggregation  of  structures  resulted.  Then  all  Colfax  sat 
up  and  took  notice  of  the  passing  events.  Merchants  and 
other  business  men  in  the  new  town  opened  their  places 
to  the  trade  and  began  making  bids  for  patronage.  Prices 
were  cut  to  attract  custom,  and  the  housewives,  always 
hunting  for  a  bargain,  soon  had  a  path  worn  across  the 
low  ground.  The  old  stores  retaliated  and  a  merry  war 
resulted. 

The  new  addition  was  derisively  called  "Bucktown," 
while  the  old  village  heard  itself  jeeringly  referred  to  as 
"Cobtown."  If  calico  went  down  a  cent  in  "Bucktown" 
it  was  reduced  two  cents  in  "Cobtown."  If  the  price  of 
ten  pounds  of  sugar  was  shaved  five  cents  in  "Cobtown" 
it  was  lowered  seven  cents  across  the  ditch.  The  old- 
fashioned  brimstone  matches,  commonly  called  "seven- 
dayers,"  usually  retailed  at  ten  cents  a  box.  The  inter- 
nal revenue  on  them  at  that  time  was  three  cents  a  box, 
and  they  cost  at  wholesale  seven  cents.  "Bucktown" 
made  a  coup  on  matches,  retailing  them  at  five  cents  a 
box.  John  Ghent  was  quick  to  take  advantage  of  this 
and  sent  young  Clarke  to  "Bucktown"  to  buy  the  supply 
for  his  store. 

The  people  in  the  old  town  were  not  as  loyal  to  the  old 
merchants  as  was  hoped  for.    They  said  to  each  other: 
10  [145] 


"If  these  men  can  sell  these  goods  now  at  these  prices, 
why  didn't  they  do  it  before?" 

And  so  the  trade  gradually  began  to  show  a  tendency 
to  balance  toward  the  new  town.  In  desperation  the 
"Cobtownites"  began  to  build  brick  blocks,  and  thus  by 
up-to-date  stores  seek  to  hold  the  ever-ebbing  tide  of 
patronage,  but  in  vain.  They  had  awakened  too  late. 
John  Ghent  saw  the  tendency  of  affairs,  and  with  his 
usual  quick  judgment  sold  his  store  to  "Ethan  Allen," 
as  he  was  known.  Abner  Trotter,  the  postmaster,  also 
left  for  a  new  location,  after  obtaining  from  Bascom  a 
promise  that  he  would  stay  and  look  after  the  postoffice 
until  Trotter's  successor  was  appointed,  at  the  same  time 
telling  Clarke  that  he  had  sent  in  his  resignation  and  rec- 
ommended his  assistant  for  the  place. 

This  seemed  all  right,  and  Clarke  took  full  charge  of 
the  office.  After  taking  possession  of  the  store  Allen 
gathered  a  few  of  his  old  cronies  in  the  establishment  and 
proceeded  with  them  to  celebrate  his  purchase  with  an 
all-night  orgie.  While  Allen's  head  was  still  sore  from 
the  effects  of  the  celebration  Bascom  took  him  to  task 
for  defiling  the  government  postoffice  in  this  manner,  and 
virtually  turning  the  place  into  a  saloon.  Allen  opened 
up  a  battery  of  language  that  sounded  too  much  like  Old 
Man  Smith  at  his  best,  down  in  Arkansas. 

The  dignity  of  the  government  having  been  thus  in- 
sulted, and  its  representative  refused  the  recognition 
rightfully  his  due,  Bascom  picked  up  the  postoffice  one 
day  and  moved  it  to  another  building  which  at  this  time 
happened  to  be  empty.  This  left  Allen  without  a  pre- 
scription clerk,  but  in  the  state  of  business  this  was  no 
special  hardship.  A  new  modern  drug  store  had  been 
built  and  equipped  in  the  new  town,  and  thither  most  of 
the  prescription  business  would  go  now  anyway. 

The  war  between  the  two  localities  continued  unabated, 
but  the  old  town  was  losing.  Resting  content  that  the 
appointment  was  coming  to  him,  and  that  he  would  be 
thus  enabled  to  live  on  the  returns  of  the  office,  Bascom 

[146] 


was  destined  to  find  his  faith  in  mankind  again  shaken. 
There  came  to  him  one  day  U.  R.  Hawley,  who  had  been 
of  the  number  that  some  time  before  had  taught  young 
Clarke  the  lesson  of  brotherly  love  through  the  symbolism 
of  the  building  of  King  Solomon's  Temple. 

"Doc,"  said  Hawley,  "You  are  expecting  to  be  ap- 
pointed postmaster,  are  you?" 

"Why,  of  course.  Trotter  read  me  the  letter  recom- 
mending me  for  the  place." 

"Well,  I  have  certain  knowledge  that  he  didn't  rec- 
ommend you,  whatever  kind  of  a  letter  he  read  or  showed 
to  you.  In  reality  he  named  your  undertaker  friend  and 
this  has  caused  a  row  among  the  whole  caboodle  of  them. 
Our  mutual  friend,  the  milliner,  would  like  to  have  it, 
and  really  of  the  bunch  I  think  she  is  the  most  deserving. 
But  the  folks  won't  stand  for  a  woman  handling  their 
letters  and  would  think  she  was  at  least  surmising  on  the 
contents,  however  innocent  she  might  be.  The  hardware 
man  has  his  petition  secretly  being  circulated.  Jim  Ar- 
rick,  as  usual,  is  helping  all  of  them  and  drawing  money 
for  preparing  papers.  Now,  these  fellows  have  double- 
crossed  you.  What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

Stunned  for  an  instant  by  the  information  that  these 
men  had  thus  betrayed  him.  Bascom  only  said : 

"I  suppose  that  means  give  it  up,  then,  for  I  haven't 
any  political  influence  or  powerful  friends  at  Washington 
to  help  me.  I'd  fight  'em  if  I  knew  what  to  do." 

Just  then  he  spied  Captain  Milton  Waugh  coming  along 
the  street  and  called  him  in.  The  captain  was  given  the 
status  of  affairs,  and  the  old  fighting  strain  in  his  blood 
began  to  tell. 

"Send  for  Bob  Dunbar  right  away,"  he  said. 

"Bob"  Dunbar  was  busy  on  his  farm,  on  which  the 
refugee  boy  had  worked  when  Old  Man  Smith  had  drawn 
the  pay.  He  came  in  immediately,  not  even  waiting  to 
change  to  his  "town  clothes."  The  matter  was  gone  over 
and  the  need  of  immediate  action  was  apparent. 

Hawley  was  postoffice  inspector.    On  his  previous  visits 

[147] 


he  had  come  into  contact  with  young  Clarke,  who  practi- 
cally did  all  the  business  of  the  office,  and  between  the 
two  there  had  sprung  up  a  friendship  that  stood  the  young 
man  in  good  stead  at  this  time.  He  introduced  the  in- 
spector to  Captain  "Waugh  and  the  captain  asked  the  for- 
mer to  take  a  walk  with  him.  They  went  away  and  were 
gone  for  several  hours,  going  over  the  entire  matter  care- 
fully. When  they  came  back  the  Captain  said: 

"Son,  I  think  you've  come  to  the  partin'  of  the  ways. 
The  ones  that  ought  to've  stood  by  ye  over  here  have  been 
too  busy  layin'  pipe  for  their  own  selfish  ends  to  pay 
much  attention  to  you.  The  fact  is,  most  of  your  real 
friends  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  ditch.  Now,  our  friend 
Hawley  here,  has  solved  the  problem  of  this  postoffice 
business  so  that  you  can  get  the  appointment.  I'll  let 
him  explain  it  for  himself." 

"You  see,  Clarke,"  said  the  inspector,  or  special  agent 
as  he  was  called  in  those  days,  "this  office  pays  about  $15 
a  month.  The  government  pays  $300  a  year,  or  $25  a 
month  to  have  the  mail  carried  from  the  railroad  station 
to  the  office.  If  the  office  is  located  within  eighty  rods  of 
the  station  the  railroad  company  has  to  deliver  the  mail 
without  compensation,  as  a  part  of  its  general  contract 
with  the  government.  Now,  if  you  will  agree  to  locate 
the  postoffice  in  which  ever  end  of  town  the  government 
designates,  we  will  land  the  office  for  you.  I  am  going  to 
recommend  to  the  department  that  the  location  of  the 
postoffice  be  changed  to  a  point  within  eighty  rods  of  the 
station,  and  the  department  will,  in  my  judgment,  act 
upon  my  recommendation  and  order  its  removal.  As  I 
understand  it,  you  have  no  other  business  now  except  that 
of  the  care  of  this  office  and  it  can  make  no  difference  to 
you  where  the  office  is  located.  Captain  Waugh  here,  whom 
I  have  come  to  esteem  very  highly,  and  who  has  demon- 
strated himself  a  true  friend  to  you,  will  go  on  your  bond, 
together  with  your  friend  Dunbar.  What  do  you  say 
to  it?" 

"If  Captain  Waugh  and  Mr.  Dunbar  go  on  my  bond, 
it  seems  to  me  I  should  consult  their  wishes  to  some  ex- 

[148] 


tent  on  the  question  of  location.  Captain  Waugh  was  a 
friend  to  me  when  I  had  no  friends,  and  if  it  is  his  wish 
that  I  take  the  office  and  move  it  there  I  will  do  it." 

"Thank  you,  son,"  said  the  Captain,  acknowledging 
the  tribute  to  him.  "I  am  satisfied  that  the  move  is  the 
right  one.  Hayden  and  Teeguarden  have  a  fine  drug 
store  over  there,  and  I  have  been  to  see  them.  They  would 
be  glad  to  have  the  office  in  their  store,  and  you  couldn't 
find  a  better  place  or  better  men  to  be  with." 

"I'll  move,"  said  Bascom. 


[149] 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Acting  on  the  report  of  the  special  agent  the  postoffice 
department  appointed  Bascom  Clarke  postmaster  at  Col- 
fax,  and  accompanied  the  appointment  with  an  order  re- 
quiring the  postoffice  to  be  moved  to  within  eighty  rods 
of  the  railway  station.  The  order  was  signed  by  Mar- 
shall Jewell,  postmaster  general  under  President  Grant. 
The  bond  was  duly  executed  by  Waugh  and  Dunbar  and 
the  formal  transfer  was  made  by  the  department.  There- 
upon the  new  incumbent  notified  the  patrons  that  after  a 
fixed  date  the  mail  would  be  cared  for  in  the  new  office 
at  the  drug  store  of  Hayden  &  Teeguarden,  located  on 
the  north  side  of  the  "Dolly  Varden"  tracks.  The  Apache 
Indians,  leaving  the  reservation  to  go  on  a  rampage, 
could  not  have  made  more  noise  with  their  warwhoops 
than  was  contained  in  the  howl  which  went  up  from  the 
Cobtownites. 

A  deputation  of  "leading  citizens,"  headed  by  John 
Girt,  who  had  been  most  instrumental  in  persuading  Trot- 
ter to  change  his  recommendation  from  Clarke  to  the 
undertaker,  crowded  into  the  postoffice  to  labor  with  the 
"erring"  young  man,  and  persuade  him  to  alter  his  de- 
cision. 

"Yes,  I  know  all  about  you  and  your  friendship  for 
me,"  declared  Bascom.  "When  I  talked  to  you  about  my 
appointment  to  the  place,  you  pretended  to  be  for  me. 
You  was  the  one  who  persuaded  Abner  Trotter  to  read 
my  name  into  the  letter  to  the  postoffice  department, 
when  you  knew  he  was  recommending  another  man.  Do 
you  think  I  need  any  fatherly  advice  from  a  traitor  to 
me?  Not  on  your  life.  The  office  is  going  to  be  moved." 

"You  can't  get  a  man  in  this  town  to  go  on  your  bond 
as  postmaster.  Who  knows  anything  about  you?  You 
drift  up  here  from  down  south  somewhere  and  if  you  think 

[150] 


anybody's  goin'  to  trust  you  with  the  government  money 
you're  mightily  mistaken." 

"Oh,  I've  got  my  bondsmen  all  right,  and  I'm  not  be- 
holden to  the  likes  of  you  for  them.  There  are  two  men 
on  my  bond,  not  two  sneaks." 

"You  are  going  a  bit  too  far  with  your  language,  young 
man, ' '  said  another  of  the  delegation,  as  he  moved  a  little 
nearer  as  though  to  threaten  the  postmaster. 

"I'm  not  usin'  language  half  as  strong  as  I'd  like  to. 
But  you  can't  browbeat  me  or  bluff  me.  This  foremost 
citizen  of  yours  is  sorta  hintin'  that  I  ain't  good  enough 
to  mix  with  you;  that  there's  some  sort  of  cloud  on  my 
name.  My  father  and  mother  are  both  dead,  but  I  stand 
here  to  protect  the  name  they  gave  me  against  the  dirty 
mouth  of  your  spokesman.  And  if  I  hear  any  more  of 
that  kind  of  talk  there'll  be  somebody  hurt." 

"We'll  see  that  your  bondsmen  withdraw.  "We'll  pro- 
test your  appointment  to  General  Grant,"  piped  up  an- 
other. 

"I  ain't  afraid  of  your  getting  my  bondsmen  off. 
Neither  of  them  has  scraped  off  the  image  of  their  Maker 
and  put  on  the  coat  of  the  devil.  They  were  built  accord- 
in'  to  the  original  plans  and  specifications  of  the  Al- 
mighty, and  they  believe  in  old-fashioned  honesty  and 
square  dealin '.  As  for  General  Grant :  My  folks  was  on 
the  other  side  in  the  war,  but  he  fought  square  and  gave 
a  square  deal  to  my  people  when  they  were  licked.  I'll 
take  my  chances  with  him." 

"We  hate  to  appeal  to  force,"  said  the  original  spokes- 
man, "but  you  won't  move  that  office." 

"I'd  hate  to  leave  behind  me  such  a  stench  as  would 
arise  from  the  blood  of  such  creatures  as  you,"  retaliated 
Clarke,  "but  I  give  you  fair  warnin'  not  to  interfere  with 
me  in  the  discharge  of  my  duty.  It  won't  be  wise.  Good 
day,  gentlemen." 

He  turned  to  his  work,  white  with  anger,  but  holding 
himself  well  in  check.  The  delegation,  with  its  members 
muttering  threats  under  their  breath,  departed. 

The  next  day,  Jim  Arrick,  the  town  lawyer,  who  had 

[151] 


been  made  into  a  barrister  from  a  country  preacher,  be- 
cause the  latter  occupation  was  not  proving  sufficiently 
remunerative,  came  into  the  office  wearing  his  most  im- 
portant air.  He  was  backed  by  so  much  of  the  population 
that  it  amounted  almost  to  a  mob. 

"Let  me  see  your  copy  of  the  regulations,"  demanded 
Arrick. 

Bascom  gave  him  a  copy  of  several  years  before.  Ar- 
rick adjusted  his  spectacles,  and  proceeded  to  wade 
through  the  laws,  rules  and  regulations  governing  and 
controlling  the  administration  of  the  postal  department. 
When  he  had  gotten  along  pretty  well  with  this  copy, 
Clarke  handed  him  another,  with  the  remark: 

"As  long  as  you're  lookin'  up  the  law,  elder,  you  might 
as  well  have  plenty  of  books." 

Arrick,  who  resented  the  term  "elder"  as  indicating 
that  he  was  a  minister  and  not  a  lawyer,  looked  up  for 
a  moment  and  got  ready  to  make  a  sharp  retort,  got  a 
glimpse  of  the  bland  face  with  its  innocent  expression, 
thought  better  of  it,  and  proceeded  with  dignified  silence. 
His  deliberations  and  search  for  the  law  took  up  so  much 
time,  and  was  so  devoid  of  striking  or  exciting  situations, 
that  the  crowd  gradually  dwindled  down  until  no  one 
was  left  except  the  lawyer. 

"Now,  elder—" 

"Don't  call  me  'elder.'  Call  me  Jim  if  you  can't  think 
of  anything  else." 

"All  right,  Jim.  Now  that  the  fellers  that  hired  you 
are  gone,  and  you're  sure  of  your  money — " 

"I'm  not  hired.  I'm  doin'  this  for  the  public  weal," 
interrupted  Arrick,  striking  his  favorite  attitude  when 
addressing  a  political  gathering  at  ten  dollars  per  address. 

"New  role  for  you,  ain't  it,  elder — I  mean  Jim?" 

Before  Arrick  could  recover  to  administer  the  verbal 
castigation,  Clarke  continued :  "I  was  going  to  show  you 
an  easy  way  of  earnin'  your  money.  But  if  you're  doin' 
it  for  the  public  weal  you'd  appear  more  like  you  was 
accomplishin '  somethin'  if  you  keep  on  porin'  over  those 
old  regulations.  But  if  you  was  gettin'  paid,  now,  I  could 

[152] 


put  you  next  to  somethin'  that  might  end  all  your  trou- 
bles." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"No,  I  don't  believe  in  interferin'  with  a  cuss  when 
he's  workin'  unselfishly  for  the  public.  The  public  don't 
appreciate  him  if  he  don't  work  hard,  whatever  he  ac- 
complishes." 

' '  Well,  suppose  I  am  working  for  money — what  then  ? ' ' 

"Are  you?" 

"Well,  of  course  there  was  something  said  about  com- 
pensating me  for  my  effort." 

"But,  did  you  get  it,  elder — I  mean  Jim?" 

"Oh,  yes,  in  a  way.  They  gave  me  a  retainer  o'  ten 
dollars." 

' '  Sho !  so  much  as  that  ?  Well,  if  you  read  this  it  may 
help  you  to  form  a  definite  and  fixed  opinion,  after  much 
careful  study  and  deliberation  and  passin '  sleepless  nights 
in  formin'  your  conclusions." 

He  turned  over  to  Arrick  the  order  from  the  postmas- 
ter general  directing  him  to  move  the  office  to  within 
eighty  rods  of  the  railway  station. 

"You  see,  Jim,  the  people  should  'a'  hired  you  before, 
and  got  out  an  injunction  or  somethin'  of  that  sort  to 
keep  the  railroad  company  from  movin'  the  station  down 
to  the  junction.  The  railroad  company's  a  sight  nearer 
to  town  than  the  postoffice  department,  and  you  might 
'a'  had  a  bigger  pull  with  them.  I've  got  my  orders, 
Arrick,  and  I'm  goin'  to  carry  them  out.  You'd  better 
advise  your  employers  that  it  won't  do  to  monkey  with 
me  when  I'm  representin'  the  United  States  of  America. 
It  may  be  a  big  job  for  a  puny  scrub  like  me,  but  I'll 
have  an  arsenal  along  with  me  in  case  I  need  it.  It's 
kind  o'  funny,  Jim,  for  me  to  be  defendin'  the  gov'ment 
postoffice  up  here  while  my  folks  ain't  got  through  givin' 
the  rebel  yell  on  the  other  side  of  the  line." 

Arrick  departed,  unable  to  carry  much  hope  to  the 
citizens.  The  order  was  plain,  the  postmaster  was  within 
his  rights,  and  any  interference,  the  lawyer  knew,  would 
invoke  trouble  with  the  government.  Bascom  did  not 

[153] 


know  this,  and  he  prepared  to  move,  fully  believing  that 
there  might  be  forceful  opposition. 

Having  heard  of  the  threats  made  against  Clarke,  a 
delegation  of  Bucktownites  came  over  on  the  morning  of 
the  moving  to  be  ready  in  case  of  trouble.  Alf  McFarland 
screwed  up  his  courage,  and  backed  his  white  horse  and 
two-wheeled  dray  up  to  the  door  of  the  postoffice.  The 
government  property  and  mail,  together  with  the  personal 
possessions  of  the  new  postmaster,  were  piled  on. 
Clarke,  with  a  loaded  revolver  in  each  hand,  sat  on  the 
load.  The  procession  moved  away  without  molestation, 
however,  accompanied  by  the  cheers  of  the  accompanying 
Bucktownites. 

The  new  quarters  were  roomy  and  light,  quite  a  con- 
trast to  either  of  the  old  locations.  Clarke  put  in  a  new 
outfit  of  the  latest  pattern  of  postoffice  equipment  and 
made  the  place  as  attractive  as  possible.  The  proprietors 
of  the  drug  store,  realizing  the  valuable  asset  to  their 
business  which  the  presence  of  the  postoffice  made,  did 
everything  to  make  the  place  comfortable  and  convenient. 

But  Cobtown  was  not  through  with  its  opposition. 
What  it  had  been  unable  to  accomplish  by  force  it  now 
sought  to  bring  about  by  boycott.  The  Cobtownites, 
knowing  that  the  postmaster's  compensation  depended 
on  the  business  he  did,  took  all  their  mail  to  the  station, 
instead  of  the  postoffice,  that  the  postmaster  should  not 
receive  the  credit  for  the  stamp  cancellations.  The  Buck- 
townites loyally  swarmed  to  the  aid  of  the  office,  and  did 
missionary  work  to  increase  its  revenue,  but  Clarke  had  to 
admit  that  the  sledding  was  hard.  It  was  two  years  be- 
fore the  feeling  wore  away  sufficiently  for  the  people  to 
realize  that  they  were  not  helping  themselves  to  any  great 
extent,  and  that  both  Clarke  and  Bucktown  were  living 
without  them. 

Then  came  the  help  he  needed.  Calvin  Gault  suspended 
publication  of  the  Boswell  Chronicle  and  brought  his 
printing  office  to  Colfax.  establishing  the  Colfax  Chronicle. 
Clarke,  knowing  everybody  in  the  region  roundabout,  and 
having  time  while  in  the  postoffice,  consented  to  help 

[154] 


Gault  in  the  way  of  items  for  the  paper.  His  education 
was  sadly  deficient,  but  he  was  studying  all  the  time,  and 
by  observation  and  a  good  memory  gained  a  liberal, 
though  not  systematic  training  in  the  use  of  words,  spell- 
ing and  punctuation. 

He  did  his  best  in  writing  the  items  for  the  paper,  and, 
by  watching  the  corrections  made  by  Gault,  learned  rap- 
idly. He  seldom  made  the  same  mistake  twice.  He  had 
an  originality  of  expression  which  found  its  way  into  the 
paper  and  made  it  spicy  reading.  Local  events  were 
treated  from  the  standpoint  of  one  who  knew  intimately 
the  entire  population,  while  the  gossip  of  the  postoffice 
kept  him  in  close  touch  with  the  events  of  the  town  and 
country. 

Gault,  on  the  other  hand,  backed  him  up  in  his  postoffice 
fight,  and  by  timely,  well  written  and  good-tempered  edi- 
torials, gradually  helped  to  create  public  sentiment  in 
favor  of  the  postmaster,  even  among  the  recalcitrant  Cob- 
townites.  Gradually  the  feeling  wore  away.  The  princi- 
pals in  the  disturbance  either  moved  away  or  transferred 
themselves,  so  far  as  business  was  concerned,  to  Buck- 
town,  and  peace  reigned.  The  war  was  over,  and  the 
belligerant  parties  who  were  not  hors  de  combat  again 
joined  hands  for  the  general  success  of  the  town. 

Clarke  was  growing  under  the  stress  of  events,  and  a 
general  favorite.  His  accommodating  ways,  considerate 
kindness  and  attention  to  his  duties  brought  continued 
praise.  His  furnishing  of  items  to  the  newspaper  could 
not  be  long  kept  secret  and  he  had  a  way  of  intuitively 
seeing  a  newspaper  story  which  would  have  entitled  him 
to  the  credit  of  having  a  ''nose  for  news." 

The  offensive  and  defensive  alliance  formed  with  Gault 
continued  without  interruption  during  Gault 's  stay  in 
Colfax.  But  the  latter  was  weary  of  the  one-man  printing 
office.  If  he  was  editor,  why  should  he  stoop  to  the  menial 
occupations  of  setting  type,  twisting  the  old  Washington 
handpress,  making  up  and  tearing  down  forms,  and  tread- 
ing the  job  press?  So  he  welcomed  the  advent  of  a  tramp 
printer,  Riley  Runyan,  whose  ability  to  stick  the  long 

[155] 


primer,  set  "ads,"  do  job  work  and  run  any  kind  of  a 
press  appealed  to  Gault.  Runyan  paused  in  town  for  a 
drink  and  a  meal,  on  his  perigrination,  struck  the  printing 
office  with  an  offer  to  set  type  therefor,  and  at  the  solici- 
tation of  Gault  remained  as  a  partner. 

The  fact  that  it  was  a  one-man  printshop  was  disclosed 
very  soon.  It  furnished  Cal  with  a  fair  living,  but  would 
not  support  two  of  them,  especially  when  both  of  them 
were  inclined  to  "take  no  thought  of  the  morrow."  They 
determined  that  the  field  was  hardly  large  enough  for 
their  joint  ability,  and  they  betook  themselves  to  Thorn- 
town,  not,  however,  without  leaving  Clarke  with  a  burn- 
ing desire  to  continue  in  the  work  of  handing  his  opinions 
to  the  people  in  columns  of  cold  type.  This  is  nothing 
unusual,  for  a  real  newspaper  man  is  never  content,  after 
having  had  a  taste  of  the  work,  with  any  other  demand 
which  may  be  made  upon  his  abilities.  Bascom  bided  his 
time  and  the  path  was  opened  for  him  to  follow  his  bent. 


[158] 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

The  Colfax  Chronicle  had  a  checkered  career,  finan- 
cially. Gault  &  Runyan  had  left  it  with  a  good  sized 
chattel  mortgage  covering  the  property,  and  it  had  one 
or  more  of  these  interesting  documents  on  file  against  it 
nearly  all  the  time.  These  mortgages  had  been  juggled 
with  by  transfers  and  re-transfers  until  William  Jacobs, 
a  red-headed  Christian  church  preacher,  was  able  to  buy 
the  plant  for  four  hundred  dollars,  for  which  amount  he 
gave  his  note.  He  had  the  bill  of  sale  duly  recorded,  but 
evidently  failed  to  have  the  chattel  mortgage  satisfied. 
He  had  for  chief  mechanic  on  the  paper  Charley  Jarrell, 
who  also  boasted  of  a  beautiful  saffron  tint  to  his  hair. 
About  the  first  thing  Jacobs  did  was  to  approach  Clarke 
one  day,  well  knowing  the  latter 's  anxiety  to  engage  in 
newspaper  work. 

"Say,  Doc,  how  would  you  like  to  own  the  Chronicle?" 

"Why,  I'd  like  it  all  right,  but  I  haven't  any  money  to 
buy  it  with." 

"I'll  let  you  have  it  for  what  I  gave  for  it,  four  hun- 
dred dollars.  I've  got  a  call  to  come  to  Illinois,  and  I 
feel  that  I  must  accept  it." 

"I  can't  raise  four  hundred  dollars,"  responded  Clarke, 
but  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  lease  the  property  from 
you  and  pay  you  sixty-five  dollars  a  year  rent." 

Jacobs  finally  agreed  to  do  this,  and  a  lease  was  ac- 
cordingly made  out  by  which  Clarke  took  over  the  plant 
and  assumed  editorial  control.  It  is  possible  Jacobs  knew 
there  was  trouble  ahead,  owing  to  the  non-satisfaction  of 
the  chattle  mortgage  and  his  inability  to  meet  payment 
on  the  note.  At  any  rate  he  disappeared  from  Colfax, 
and  returned  to  Illinois.  Before  going,  however,  he  left 
the  address  of  his  father  with  Bascom  that  the  new  pro- 
prietor might  send  the  rent  money  through  him  to  the 

[157] 


son.  Jarrell  agreed  to  stay  and  manage  the  mechanical 
end  of  the  property  on  a  partnership  basis. 

All  went  well  until  Jarrell  was  taken  with  the  "high 
hat  and  kid  glove  fever,"  when  he  concluded  to  throw 
overboard  his  useless  partner,  as  he  deemed  Bascom. 
Clarke  had  been  industriously  equipping  himself  for  the 
work,  and,  while  Jarrell  was  taking  the  credit,  the  fact 
was  that  most  of  the  paper  was  the  result  of  earnest  toil 
on  the  part  of  the  postmaster.  Jarrell  boarded  with 
Clarke,  without  pay,  and  was  given  a  home  as  one  of  the 
family.  Jarrell,  knowing  the  circumstances  under  which 
Jacobs  obtained  the  plant,  and  having  discovered  that  the 
old  chattel  mortgage  was  still  on  record,  went  up  to  Fort 
Wayne  and  entered  into  negotiations  with  Gideon  Seavey, 
a  curly-headed,  red-headed  lawyer,  who  held  the  first  claim 
against  the  Chronicle  outfit. 

Suspicioning  his  partner's  duplicity  and  afterwards  con- 
firming it,  Bascom  got  into  correspondence  with  the 
preacher  and  obtained  a  bill  of  sale  from  him  for  the 
property.  He  knew  from  the  satisfied  manner  of  Jarrell 
that  he  had  been  successful  in  his  arrangements  with 
Seavey  and  that  trouble  could  be  looked  for.  Not  a  word 
did  he  say  to  the  scheming  partner,  however,  until  he  had 
the  whiphand.  The  mutual  disclosure  came  at  the  Clarke 
table  at  supper.  Without  a  cent  of  compensation  he  had 
boarded  with  the  Clarkes  for  nearly  a  year.  On  this 
night,  just  after  the  meal  was  over,  Jarrell  pushed  his 
chair  back  and  casually  remarked: 

"Well,  Doc,  our  partnership  will  cease  tomorrow.  I 
won't  need  you  any  longer." 

Clarke  calmly  waited  until  the  statement  was  com- 
pleted, and  then  said: 

"You  are  right  about  the  end  of  our  business  rela- 
tions. You  will  oblige  me  by  removing  your  personal  ef- 
fects from  my  home  as  well  as  the  office,  not  tomorrow, 
but  tonight.  I  don't  want  you  around  either  place  after 
the  length  of  time  it  takes  you  to  get  your  things  to- 
gether. You  think  I  have  been  in  the  dark  as  to  your 
scheming,  but  I  have  known  all  about  what  you  have  been 

[158] 


trying  to  do  to  me  while  eating  at  my  table  and  living 
in  my  house.  A  man  who  will  seek  to  undermine  another 
in  a  business  matter  while  accepting  his  hospitality  is 
akin  to  the  fellow  who  comes  to  make  a  social  call  when 
he  knows  he  has  the  smallpox.  You  aren't  fit  to  be  in 
my  house,  and  you  certainly  aren't  worthy  of  my  respect. 
So  get  out." 

He  laid  the  bill  of  sale  from  the  preacher  under  Jar- 
rell's  nose,  as  the  latter  sat  stunned  by  the  turn  matters 
had  taken. 

"There  are  too  many  red  heads  mixed  up  in  this  busi- 
ness for  it  to  thrive  well,  and  we'll  just  follow  the  Scrip- 
tures that  the  last  to  come  shall  be  the  first  to  go.  Don't 
stand  on  the  order  of  your  going  but  rid  us  of  your  des- 
picable carcass  just  as  soon  as  you  can." 

Jarrell's  face  looked  like  a  mixture  of  chalk  and  poke- 
berry  juice  as  he  realized  that  his  hand  had  been  called, 
and  that  he  had  lost.  He  gathered  up  his  belongings  un- 
der the  eye  of  the  householder;  they  went  to  the  office, 
where  Bascom  watched  him  while  he  obtained  his  per- 
sonal possessions,  and  the  deposed  partner  then  left. 

He  did  not  leave  town,  however,  but  remained  around 
to  tell  the  people  that  Clarke  didn't  know  enough  to  run 
the  paper  and  that  it  would  be  a  sorry  looking  affair 
when  it  came  out.  Further,  he  took  everybody  into  his 
confidence  and  gave  them  the  information  that  he  would 
soon  be  in  posession  of  the  paper;  that  in  fact  he  right- 
fully owned  it  now,  but  was  being  kept  out  of  his  rights 
by  the  postmaster.  Clarke  kept  his  own  counsel,  but  ad- 
vised his  friends  not  to  worry.  The  paper  would  be  out  in 
some  sort  of  shape,  and  they  could  then  determine  whether 
or  not  it  was  in  capable  hands. 

Fortunately  the  new  sole  proprietor  obtained  the  serv- 
ices of  a  Frenchman  named  Barren,  as  efficient  a  printer 
as  there  was  in  the  state  of  Indiana,  and  a  thoroughly 
educated  man.  Within  a  few  days  he  was  in  the  office  and 
making  good.  He  still  had  the  two  Irish  boys  as  helpers. 
Clarke  threw  himself  into  the  editorial  work  of  the  first 
issue  after  Jarrell's  ousting,  and  so  earnestly  did  he  labor 

[159] 


that  it  was  not  only  as  good  as  any  of  the  preceding,  but 
from  a  newspaper  standpoint  it  was  better.  Then,  this 
issue  was  followed  by  others,  and  from  the  quality  of 
matter  contained  in  it  all  the  town  came  to  realize  that  in 
reality  it  was  Clarke  who  had  been  the  spirit  of  the  paper 
before. 

"Doc"  laid  out  a  "sanctum"  with  a  carpet  on  the 
floor  and  neat  furniture.  In  this  secluded  spot  he  could 
cogitate  and  work,  and  receive  callers.  A  door  opened 
from  this  room  into  the  printshop,  that  he  might  be  in 
touch  with  affairs  there.  Everything  ran  like  clockwork 
and  peace  reigned. 

Jarrell  had  hung  around  town,  having  notified  Seavey 
of  his  failure  to  obtain  possession  of  the  office.  Seavey 
promised  to  come  down  and  see  that  the  "trespassing  in- 
terloper" was  thrown  out  of  the  office  and  Jarrell  tri- 
umphantly placed  therein.  With  a  knowing  air  the  evicted 
partner  walked  around  and,  in  addition  to  doing  all  he 
could  to  injure  Clarke  and  his  business,  bade  the  people 
to  "just  wait  and  they'd  hear  something  drop." 

The  promised  "drop"  proved  to  be  Gideon  Seavey,  the 
red-headed  lawyer,  who  dropped  from  the  "Dolly  Var- 
den"  train  one  day,  shook  hands  with  Jarrell  and  had  a 
short  conference  with  him.  Bascom  saw  that  the  time 
was  at  hand  and  cleared  the  decks  for  action.  In  the 
drawer  of  the  editorial  table  was  a  convenient  six-shooter. 
He  hastily  explained  the  situation  to  the  French  foreman 
and  the  two  Irish  assistants,  and  bade  them  arm  them- 
selves with  steel  "side-sticks"  and  be  ready  to  wield 
them  if  necessary.  The  "side  stick"  (to  explain  to  the 
uninitiate)  was  a  tapered  piece  of  steel  as  long  as  the  page 
of  the  paper.  By  a  series  of  wedges  placed  between  it 
and  the  "chase"  or  frame  containing  the  page  of  type,  it 
helped  to  hold  the  type  in  place  so  that  the  "form"  or 
page  of  type  could  be  carried  about  and  put  on  the  press, 
and  remain  in  place  during  the  process  of  printing.  It 
can  readily  be  believed  that  the  "sidesticks"  proved  most 
formidable  weapons. 

[160] 


The  Frenchman  quickly  caught  the  trend  of  affairs,  as 
did  the  two  Irish  lads,  who  were  not  only  spoiling  for  a 
fight  on  general  principles,  but  they  deemed  it  a  pleasure 
to  fight  for  their  employer,  to  whom  they  were  loyal  to 
the  last  meaning  of  that  term. 

''Leave  him  to  us,"  said  the  foreman,  "We'll  pi  his 
form  so  that  the  devil  himself  can't  lock  it  up  again." 

"Yis,  lave  'im  tuh  us,"  said  one  of  the  Irish  lads  whom 
Clarke  had  befriended  on  more  than  one  occasion,  and 
whose  mother  had  frequently  called  upon  the  "Holy 
Mother"  to  bless  and  protect  "Doc"  for  his  help  to  her 
in  her  poverty.  "Lave  'im  tuh  us,  an'  yez'll  see  a  shindy 
worth  lookin'  at." 

"We'll  fix  him  so  his  own  mother  won't  know  'im," 
valiantly  vouchsafed  the  younger  of  the  lads,  who  en- 
joyed the  title  of  "devil,"  his  due  under  the  printing 
office  rules. 

The  preparations  complete,  the  editor  went  into  the 
sanctum,  lit  a  stogie,  put  his  feet  on  the  table  and  began 
examining  the  exchanges  as  though  no  storm  were  brood- 
ing, or,  if  it  were,  he  had  his  lightning  rods  all  in  place 
and  well  grounded,  all  leaks  in  the  roof  repaired  and 
the  eaves  ready  to  carry  off  the  water.  Seavey  came 
stamping  up  the  stairs.  He  neglected  to  pay  his  respects 
to  the  editorial  department,  but  went  immediately  into 
the  composing  room.  Taking  out  the  chattel  mortgage 
given  by  Gault  &  Runyan,  years  before,  he  snorted : 

"I  hereby  take  possession  of  my  property  under  this 
mortgage!" 

"You'll  take  posession  of  hell  in  about  two  seconds  if 
you  don't  get  out  of  here,"  responded  the  fiery  French- 
man. 

"Where  is  the  man  who  pretends  to  claim  my  proper- 
ty?" he  shouted. 

This  was  Clarke's  cue,  and  he  called  from  the  sanctum: 

"Silence  in  the  composing  room!" 

That  was  enough.  Into  the  room  came  Seavey  in  his 
most  belligerent  manner.  He  was  followed  by  the  com- 
posing room  detachment,  each  bearing  his  murderous 
11  [161] 


side  stick.  Seavey  did  not  look  around  at  them,  but 
made  immediately  for  the  table  where  Bascom  sat  in  seem- 
ing calm.  Clarke  pulled  out  the  drawer  of  the  table,  so 
that  his  artillery  might  be  within  easy  reach,  and  waited 
the  onslaught. 

"Why,  good  morning,  Mr.  Seavey,"  he  said.  "I  thought 
it  might  be  the  apparition  of  the  Reverend  William  Ja- 
cobs, or  it  might  be  that  other  red-headed  friend  of  mine, 
Charley  Jarrell,  come  to  get  something  forgotten  in  his 
hasty  leavetaking. " 

"You  contemptible  thief,"  shouted  Seavey.  "You  will 
try  to  steal  my  property,  will  you." 

The  editor  let  him  go  on  without  interruption.  The 
lawyer  hurled  epithets  and  abuse  at  everybody  from  Adam 
down  to  Gault,  Runyan  and  Jacobs,  winding  up  with  a 
streak  of  vile  and  approbious  epithets  reflecting  on 
Clarke,  finally  ending  with  an  insult  to  the  latter 's  mother. 

' '  Stop !  and  stop  now ! ' '  said  Clarke,  as  his  gun  came 
out  of  the  drawer  with  its  muzzle  looking  into  Seavey 's 
yes*-  "*'Say  what  you  please  so  long  as  you  don't  charge 
with  dishonor  or  insult  my  mother's  memory.  Sit 
down  and  talk  like  a  man  or  leave  this  room  before  it's 
too  late." 

Seavey  eyed  the  gun,  took  a  look  at  the  expression 
on  the  face  of  Clarke,  and  saw  there  a  determination  which 
he  had  not  expected.  He  calmed  down,  took  a  chair  and 
inside  of  ten  minutes  had  apologized  for  his  conduct, 
reached  an  understanding,  put  out  his  hand  and  said : 

"I  give  in,  young  man.  You're  on  the  square  and  I'm 
in  the  wrong.  You  have  the  legal  title  to  the  property, 
whatever  mistakes  may  have  been  made  with  those  I 
trusted.  I  acknowledge  that  you  have  had  no  hand  in 
the  crooked  part  of  the  deal  by  which  I  have  been  cheated 
out  of  my  money.  You  have  voluntarily  agreed  to  assume 
a  part  of  the  burden,  when  there  is  no  law  on  earth  could 
make  you,  simply  because  you  see  I  have  been  unjustly 
dealt  with.  I  take  off  my  hat  to  you,  sir,  as  to  a  man, 
and  from  this  time  forth  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do  to 
be  of  service  you  have  but  to  call." 

[162] 


As  Clarke  took  the  hand  he  answered : 

"I  want  to  get  along  in  the  world,  Seavey,  but  I  don't 
want  a  cent  of  crooked  money.  I've  fought  my  way  al- 
most inch  by  inch  to  make  good  on  the  name  I  bear,  and 
I  shall  never  discredit  it  by  a  dishonorable  act.  I  may  be 
a  two-by-four  in  size  and  a  shingle  nail  so  far  as  wealth 
is  concerned,  but  I've  a  wife  and  baby,  honesty,  ambition 
and  industry,  and  that  ought  to  be  enough  to  make  a  man 
reasonably  happy.  If  a  couple  of  fellows  at  variance, 
like  you  and  me,  will  only  take  time  to  sit  down  and  talk 
things  over  quietly  and  calmly,  it  won't  take  long  to  ar- 
rive at  an  understanding,  but  with  tempers  like  yours 
and  mine  it  seems  as  though  there  has  to  be  about  so 
much  dynamite  exploded  before  we  can  get  down  to  the 
bed-rock  of  reason.  I  thought  you  were  a  bulldozing 
shyster  trying  to  beat  me  out  of  my  property  and  you 
thought  I  was  a  thief  in  unlawful  possession  of  yours. 
We  have  each  dfscovered  the  mistake.  I  am  glad  it  has 
ended  this  way  and  pledge  you  my  friendship." 

Seavey  didn't  stop  to  consult  with  Jarrell,  but  took 
the  next  train  home,  leaving  with  Clarke  the  sole  owner- 
ship and  possession  of  the  Colfax  Chronicle,  without  lien 
or  hindrance. 


[163] 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Country  newspaper  life,  lived  as  it  has  to  be  lived,  is 
something  of  an  education  in  breadth  and  a  thorough  test 
of  the  powers  of  endurance.  It  is  a  hard  school  in  strict 
economy,  a  constant  stimulant  to  ingenuity  and  a  certain 
training  in  descernment.  It  is  a  perpetual  encyclopedia 
of  inconsequential  affairs  grown  to  importance  through 
the  magnifying  glasses  of  local  significance. 

Take  the  country  editor  out  of  a  town  and  it  might  as 
well  be  off  the  earth.  Think  of  it !  No  glowing  accounts 
of  weddings,  no  congratulatory  announcements  of  births, 
and  no  tearfully  written  obituaries  with  which  to  fill  the 
home  scrap  book.  No  joke  on  Jim  Smith,  enjoyed  by  all 
except  Jim ;  no  description  of  the  new  barn  at  Spikes  nor 
comment  on  the  improvement  made  by  the  painting  of 
Jones's  house;  no  telling  of  the  visit  of  Helen  James,  of 
Indianapolis,  with  the  family  of  Zebedee  Willis,  nor  of  the 
party  given  in  her  honor;  no  one  to  chronicle  the  depart- 
ure of  Grandma  Wiggins  to  visit  her  daughter,  the  wife 
of  a  prominent  business  men  in  Terre  Haute;  and  so  on 
through  the  events  of  a  country  town. 

Then,  in  the  old  days  before  rural  delivery,  the  post- 
master was  the  most  important  personage.  Through  him 
communication  was  maintained  with  the  outer  world. 
Deprived  of  the  pleasure  of  gathering  to  "wait  for  the 
mail  to  be  distributed,"  and  watching  the  box  to  see  if 
the  unseen  forces  behind  would  propel  a  letter  therein,  a 
certain  percentage  of  enjoyment  would  be  lost.  And  gos- 
siping with  the  dignitary  through  the  little  window,  giv- 
ing and  taking  the  latest  observations  on  current  topics, 
during  an  idle  moment  on  both  sides  of  the  partition,  was 
an  opportunity  for  mutual  confidences  not  to  be  lightly 
valued.  This  was  especially  true  if  the  postmaster  still 

[164] 


possessed  "red  blood,"  and  was  alive  to  the  things  going 
on  around  him. 

Therefore,  when  Bascom  B.  Clarke  found  himself  occu- 
pying both  responsible  positions — editor  and  postmaster — 
he  worked  overtime  to  successfully  administer  the  two. 
Of  course  "press  night,"  namely,  the  night  before  the 
day  on  which  the  paper  was  dated,  was  a  busy  time. 
Then  it  was  that  the  last  batch  of  items  was  set  by  the 
compositors,  the  forms  made  up  and  laid  on  the  "bed" 
of  the  old  handpress  and  the  paper  was  printed  through 
the  writhing,  swinging  and  twisting  pull  on  the  lever. 
Then  came  the  folding  and  addressing  of  these  for  local 
consumption,  and  the  added  wrapping  of  those  destined 
for  the  out-going  mail.  The  work  of  handling  the  Chroni- 
cle after  it  came  from  the  press  was  in  the  hands  of 
Clarke,  and  many  a  time  the  sun  came  up  before  his  task 
was  finished. 

When  old  A.  N.  Kellogg  invented  "patent  insides,"  by 
which  a  country  printer  could  purchase  his  paper  in  Chi- 
cago, half  printed  with  a  good  selection  of  miscellaneous 
matter  and  news,  he  made  it  possible  for  a  respectable 
country  newspaper  to  be  printed  where  otherwise  it  would 
have  been  practically  impossible.  The  "patents"  cost  but 
little  more  than  the  bare  white  paper,  and  Kellogg  made 
his  money  principally  from  the  advertising  matter  on  his 
part  of  the  sheet,  the  revenue  from  which  belonged  to  him. 
Although  the  originator  Kellogg  did  not  enjoy  a  monopoly 
of  the  business,  for  "patent"  houses  sprang  up  in  all  the 
commercial  centers.  So  Clarke  had  his  patents  from  In- 
dianapolis, and  under  the  supervision  of  Barron,  his 
printer,  the  paper  was  typographically  neat. 

No  matter  how  much  of  a  necessity  to  the  community 
he  was,  the  country  editor,  in  those  days,  was  looked  upon 
largely  as  a  luxury.  The  advertisers  considered  their 
displays  as  so  much  contribution  to  a  public  enterprise, 
and  expected  the  genius  who  ran  the  paper  to  trade  most 
of  the  account  out  at  the  "emporium."  The  subscribers 
were  in  the  habit  of  paying  in  cordwood,  vegetables  and 
other  products  of  the  farm,  when  belonging  to  the  out-of- 

[16o] 


town  contingent,  and  by  services,  if  a  town  dweller.  The 
barber,  or  rather  "tonsorial  artist,"  paid  his  in  shaves, 
the  cobbler  cobbled  and  the  blacksmith  forged,  the  doctor 
doctored  and  the  drayman  hauled.  An  occasional  legal 
notice  and  the  fellow  who  paid  in  cash  because  he  couldn't 
think  of  a  good  excuse  not  to,  together  with  most  of  the 
receipts  from  the  job  department  of  the  print  shop,  helped 
to  put  some  actual  money  into  the  hands  of  the  proprietor. 
But  it  was  not  an  exhorbitant  amount,  and  the  earnings  of 
the  postoffice  had  to  be  appealed  to  more  than  once  to 
enable  him  to  raise  sufficient  circulating  medium  to  meet 
current  expenses.  He  might  trade  advertising  space  and 
subscriptions  for  the  things  to  eat  and  wear,  but  every 
month  the  " patent"  people  demanded  settlement  for  the 
paper  delivered  and  had  to  have  cash,  while  the  employes 
in  the  printing  office  looked  for  a  certain  percentage,  at 
least,  of  their  wages  in  real  money.  Getting  this  money 
together,  gathering  and  writing  the  news,  placating  the 
offended  or  "standing  pat"  when  such  course  was  justi- 
fied, dodging  or  defending  libel  suits,  attending  all  the 
public  affairs  in  the  village,  drawing  an  occasional  deed 
or  mortgage  or  taking  an  acknowledgment  as  "notary 
public, ' '  besides  keeping  the  postoffice  running  so  that  the 
public  service  should  not  be  impeded,  gave  Clarke  a  some- 
what strenuous  life. 

There  was  no  question  about  his  having  an  orignal  way 
of  looking  at  things  and  this  originality  crept  into  his 
writings.  Once  in  awhile  this  tart  dressing  to  his  jour- 
nalistic pabulum  was  a  trifle  too  strong  of  acid  to  be  rel- 
ished by  the  party  most  concerned,  and  trouble  resulted. 
Thus,  a  three-line  item  concerning  the  quality  of  ice- 
cream furnished  at  the  "parlors"  of  Fred.  Hallo  well, 
irritated  that  personage.  It  was  written  in  a  joking 
strain,  but  there  was  just  enough  truth  in  the  veiled  sug- 
gestion that  he  was  stinting  the  quality  of  it,  to  make 
him  squirm.  He  knew  that  he  was  cheating  his  custom- 
ers, and  he  also  was  certain,  from  the  item,  that  the 
editor  was  at  least  suspicious  of  the  fact.  Hallowell,  in 
the  old  days,  had  been  ring-leader  of  the  "  Never-Sweats, " 

[166] 


a  gang  of  roisterers  whose  principal  occupation  consisted 
in  ''jokes"  which  usually  involved  destruction  of  prop- 
erty and  the  stealing  of  inconsequential  things,  not  of 
sufficient  value  to  make  the  victims  prosecute,  but  annoy- 
ing and  aggravating. 

Hallowell  had  gotten  through  his  boyhood  without  much 
work,  and  the  habit  of  laziness  sat  heavily  upon  him.  He 
figured  that  a  refreshment  stand,  with  a  little  room  in  be- 
hind for  a  "social  game,"  would  come  as  near  "no  work" 
as  he  could  hope  for,  and  would  allow  him  to  be  reckoned 
with  as  a  business  man.  But  his  lack  of  industry  and  his 
dishonesty  cropped  out  here.  He  found  that  he  could 
"short-change"  his  patrons  in  the  quality  of  things  served 
in  the  restaurant  and  did  it.  When  the  item  appeared 
in  the  Chronicle  he  did  not  dare  to  show  his  feelings 
openly  when  joked  about  it,  but  prided  himself  on  his 
ability  to  get  even  in  another  way. 

Calling  to  his  aid  a  few  old  cronies  he  essayed,  one  night, 
to  put  the  town  donkey  into  the  sanctum  of  the  editor 
with  suitable  labels  to  demonstrate  that  he  was  in  his 
rightful  place  and  a  fit  substitute  for  th^- regular  occu- 
pant. But  the  native  stubborness  of  tlwbeast,  together 
with  the  narrowness  of  the  doorway  wnd  stairs,  com- 
pelled the  abandonment  of  the  undertaking  after  several 
hours  of  labor.  By  "grapevine  telegraph"  Clarke  was 
apprised  of  the  attempt  and  failure.  This  was  meat  for 
the  pencil  of  the  local  newsgatherer,  who  enjoyed  a  joke 
on  himself  as  well  as  on  the  other  fellow.  But  in  con- 
cluding his  account  he  took  occasion  to  remark  that  he 
could  not  understand  why  they  had  gone  to  all  that  trou- 
ble, "when  a  bigger  jackass  in  the  person  of  Fred  Hallo- 
well  could  get  through  the  doorway  and  up  the  stairs 
without  difficulty." 

This  shot  went  home  and,  with  scarification  and  irrita- 
tion given  by  the  laughing  comments  of  the  townspeople, 
caused  Hallowell  to  rise  in  his  wrath  and  swear  vengeance. 
Though  a  giant  in  size  he  was  a  coward  by  nature.  He 
had  bulldozed  and  tantalized  smaller  boys  in  his  younger 
days,  and  by  his  size  in  later  years  had  bluffed  his  way 

[167] 


more  than  once.  But  he  was  afraid  of  Clarke,  for  he  had 
never  been  able  to  make  the  latter  realize  his  greatness  or 
forget  the  fact  that  he  was  a  good-for-nothing  loafer  all 
his  life. 

A  few  days  afterwards  Charlie  Holmes  came  into  the 
postoffice.  He  had  been  ill  for  some  time  and  walked 
slowly  and  with  difficulty.  In  response  to  the  cheery 
greeting  of  the  postmaster,  after  making  sure  there  was  no 
one  in  hearing  distance  he  said : 

"Doc,  they're  plannin'  to  kill  you." 

"Who's  planning  to  kill  me,  Charlie?" 

"Fred  Hallo  well  and  a  big  nigger." 

' '  How  do  you  know  ?    Tell  me  all  about  it. ' ' 

"Well,  you  know  I've  been  sick,  Doc.  It  was  pleasant 
today,  and  I  was  lying  on  top  of  a  pile  of  lumber  down 
by  the  tracks  when  I  heard  Fred  Hallowell  promise  to 
give  a  big  nigger  that's  been  'round  town  some  time  fifty 
dollars  if  he'd  'do  you  up,'  and  he  agreed  to  do  it  to-night. 
For  God's  sake,  Doc,  don't  let  'em  know  I  told  you  or 
they'd  kill  me." 

Bascom  grasped  the  hand  of  the  boy  and  said : 

"Thank  you  for  coming  to  me,  Charlie.  I  won't  let 
any  one  know  you  told  me  and  I'll  take  care  of  myself 
and  them,  too." 

Putting  a  gun  in  his  pocket  he  left  the  postoffice  and 
started  first  to  find  the  negro.  He  was  not  long  in  locat- 
ing the  burly  black  and  walked  up  to  him. 

"My  name's  Clarke.  I'm  the  man  Hallowell  has  hired 
you  to  'do  up.'  Take  a  good  look  at  me,  so  you'll  know  me 
next  time  you  see  me,  for  that  will  be  in  about  a  half  an 
hour  if  you're  not  out  of  town  by  that  time,  and  when 
you  do  see  me  I'll  pump  you  so  full  of  lead  that  they'll 
have  to  get  a  derrick  to  load  you  in  the  undertaker's 
wagon.  Now  go,  and  go  quick.  I'm  a  little  nervous  and 
I'm  afraid  I  won't  be  able  to  wait  the  full  half  hour." 

The  "nigger"  took  one  look  at  his  accuser,  noticed  that 
Clarke's  right  hand  was  toying  close  to  his  back  pocket. 
Then  he  went  up  the  track  and  out  of  town.  He  did  not 
return. 

[168] 


The  editor  now  hunted  up  Hallowell,  whom  he  located 
in  Dan  White's  hardware  store.  As  he  walked  up  to 
him  it  was  like  the  contrast  in  size  between  David  and 
Goliath.  When  Hallowell  saw  him  he  grew  pale,  for  there 
was  a  glint  in  the  eye  of  Bascom  that  he  did  not  like. 

"So  you're  the  man,  are  you,"  began  Clarke,  "who 
hasn't  the  courage  to  do  his  own  dirty  work,  and  has  to 
hire  a  nigger  to  do  his  killing  for  him." 

Dan  White  carefully  stepped  over  and  closed  the  door. 
He  knew  Hallowell  and  his  character.  This  promised  to 
be  something  of  an  interesting  episode,  and  it  wasn't 
necessary  to  have  any  other  witnesses. 

"I — I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  stammered  Hallo- 
well. 

"Oh,  yes  you  do,  and  so  do  I.  You  hired  a  big  buck 
nigger  to  kill  me,  and  have  contracted  to  pay  him  fifty 
dollars  for  the  job.  That  nigger  is  now  making  tracks  for 
Indianapolis  as  fast  as  his  dirty  feet  will  carry  him. 
You've  been  a  cowardly  sneak  and  a  disgrace  to  the  name 
of  man  ever  since  you  struck  this  town,  and  now  you 
would  add  murder  to  the  list  of  crimes  you  have  com- 
mitted. I  ought  to  kill  you  now  and  here,  defenseless 
and  unwarned,  as  you  planned  to  have  me  killed.  But  I 
won't  do  it.  That  would  place  me  on  a  level  with  you 
and  your  nigger  consort.  I  am  going  to  give  you  the 
same  chance  I  gave  him.  You  have  evidently  determined 
that  the  town  is  too  small  for  both  of  us.  Very  well,  I 
accept  the  edict  as  you  have  laid  it  down.  It's  too  bad  for 
you  that  your  hired  assassin  concluded  to  throw  up  the 
job.  You'll  have  to  do  it  yourself.  But  I'm  here  to  tell 
you  that,  knowing  you  have  threatened  my  life,  and  pre- 
pared to  meet  my  Maker  as  I  am,  I'll  manage  to  get  in 
one  or  two  shots  at  you  myself  while  you  are  engaged  in 
your  occupation  of  ridding  the  town  of  me.  If  you  are 
here  in  town  I'll  take  it  that  you  have  determined  that 
you  are  of  more  use  to  it  than  me.  I  have  a  feeling  that 
the  world  would  be  better  without  you  and  hell  dirtier 
and  more  contaminating  with  you.  I  don't  relish  the  job 
of  being  the  instrument  of  Providence  which  removes  you 

[169] 


from  this  mundane  sphere  and  adds  to  the  population  of 
the  already  overcrowded  lake  of  brimstone.  But  I'll  do 
my  best  not  to  leave  a  widow  for  the  town  to  look  after. 
So,  when  you're  ready  to  carry  out  your  threat  I'll  be 
waiting  for  you.  I'll  take  no  chances.  Don't  cross  my 
path  again,  for  if  you  do  I  will  know  that  you've  spurred 
your  cowardly  carcass  to  do  your  own  murderous  work 
and  I'll  shoot  you  on  sight.  That's  all." 

He  deliberately  turned  his  back  on  Hallowell  and  walked 
the  full  length  of  the  hardware  store  to  the  door  and  out 
onto  the  street  without  once  looking  behind,  thus  showing 
his  contempt  for  his  enemy  and  his  confidence  that  he 
would  not  dare  to  attack  him  openly.  Clarke  was  wrought 
up  to  a  high  pitch,  so  much  that  on  his  way  home  that 
night  he  nearly  took  a  shot  at  Mike  Northrup,  one  of  his 
best  friends,  who  was  about  the  size  of  Hallowell,  and 
who  waited  for  the  editor  to  come  up.  Northrup  caught 
the  gleam  of  the  revolver  and  spoke  in  time.  The 
thought  that  he  might  have  killed  his  friend  preyed  upon 
Bascom  heavily  all  night. 

Northrup  was  up  town  early  the  next  morning  and 
after  a  consultation  Doctor  Parker  informed  Hallowell 
that  he  must  make  his  peace  with  Clarke  immediately  or 
leave  town.  Thoroughly  frightened,  he  sought  and  ob- 
tained an  interview  with  Clarke  in  which  he  begged  for 
his  forgiveness,  and  acknowledged  his  wrong.  Quick  to 
resent  a  wrong  he  was  even  more  ready  to  forgive,  and 
Hallowell  was  told  that  so  far  as  the  editor  was  concerned 
he  had  nothing  to  fear.  But  he  urged  the  man  to  change 
his  manner  of  living  and  be  a  credit  to  the  community. 

"Fred,"  he  concluded,  "the  devil  never  gives  much 
credit  to  the  man  that  serves  him  and  your  pay's  darn 
small,  but  God  rolls  up  a  hundred  dollars  in  money  or 
satisfaction  with  every  one  you  spend  for  Him.  If  I  were 
you  I'd  give  the  old  fork-tailed  chap  a  wide  berth  and 
come  out  in  the  open.  The  people  will  forget  all  you've 
done  to  them  and  stand  by  you  if  you're  square.  Ill 
wipe  the  slate  of  this  little  affair  which  might  have  ended 
in  a  tragedy  and  do  what  I  can  to  help  you.  But  you've 

[170] 


got  to  do  it  yourself,  so  far  as  facing  about  is  concerned. 
You  never  saw  a  grub  that  helped  the  corn  to  grow  or  a 
boll-weevil  that  had  a  crop  of  cotton  to  his  credit.  And 
you  never  saw  a  human  parasite,  or  a  hater  of  mankind 
that  eventually  garnered  a  harvest  of  happiness.  I'll  be 
for  you  if  you're  right  and  I'll  be  everlastingly  against 
you  if  you're  wrong." 

Hallowell  promised  reformation,  but  early  dropped  into 
his  old  ways,  and  with  his  gang  soon  took  to  making 
things  unpleasant  in  the  town.  While  ostensibly  he  had 
made  his  peace  with  Clarke  the  whole  proceeding  seemed 
to  rankle  in  his  heart,  and  throwing  his  good  resolutions 
to  the  winds  he  started  on  a  career  of  lawlessness. 

Finally,  when  he  began  dynamiting  buildings,  thus 
jeopardizing  human  life  as  well  as  destroying  property,  a 
self  constituted  vigilance  committee,  after  becoming  cer- 
tain of  the  author  of  the  outrages,  prepared  to  deal  out  to 
him  summary  punishment.  Clarke,  however,  interceded 
and  saved  his  life.  He  was  warned  to  leave,  however,  and 
soon  moved  away. 

Some  years  afterwards,  Gilbert  Hamilton,  of  Thornton, 
who  succeeded  Clarke  as  editor  of  the  Chronicle,  wrote  a 
postal  card  to  the  latter  in  his  Wisconsin  home.  It  read 
as  follows : 

' '  Fred  Hallowell  rode  over  the  range  last  night.  He  had 
an  altercation  in  the  middle  of  the  road  with  a  man  whom 
he  threatened  as  he  threatened  you.  Two  shots  were  fired. 
Hallowell 's  in  hell  now.  Praise  God  from  Whom  all  bless- 
ings flow." 


[171] 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

During  all  this  time  his  leg,  which  had  become  infected 
in  Arkansas,  was  giving  Clarke  more  or  less  trouble,  and 
no  treatment  given  afforded  more  than  temporary  relief. 
Freeman  Teeguarden,  one  of  the  proprietors  of  the  drug 
store  in  which  the  postoffice  was  located,  came  to  Bas- 
com  one  day. 

"Doc,"  he  said,  "there's  a  couple  of  spiritualist  fellows 
in  town  who  have  been  doin'  some  unexplainable  things. 
Why  don't  you  see  'em  about  that  leg  of  yours?" 

' '  What  good  could  they  do  ?  All  the  doctors  have  taken 
a  whack  at  it  and  you  don't  suppose  these  fellows  could 
shoo  it  away,  do  you?" 

"I  don't  know  as  they  could  do  anything,  but  there 
ain't  no  harm  in  tryin'.  They  can't  hurt  you  any." 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  in  any  of  that  sort  of  stuff,  and 
I  know  you  don't  because  you  don't  believe  in  any  kind 
of  religion." 

"I  know  I  ain't  overly  strong  on  religion,  Doc,  but 
these  fellows  are  doing  things  I  can't  account  for,  and  I 
wouldn't  care  what  they  called  it  if  they  was  doin'  good 
and  helpin'  folks.  The  proof  of  a  man's  religion  is  what 
it  does  for  him,  and  what  it  makes  him  do  for  his  fellows. 
You've  said  that  to  me  yourself,  many  times,  when  you 
was  arg'ing  some  of  your  Methodist  doctrines.  I've  allus 
said  to  you  that  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  it,  and  so  I 
don't  believe  nothin'  about  it.  That's  all.  But  I've  got 
respect  for  what  the  other  fellow  thinks,  and  I  ain't  goin' 
to  destroy  his  faith  just«fe\ecause  I  can't  fathom  the  reason 
for  it.  I  realize  that  you  may  do  more  harm  by  makin'  a 
man  doubt  than  you  can  sidin'  in  with  him  on  his  reli- 
gion, and  you  ain't  never  heard  me  tellin'  a  chap  there 
wasn't  nothin'  in  it  when  he  was  arg'in'  religion.  That's 
between  himself  and  God.  If  a  man's  got  religion  I  say 

[172] 


let  him  do  somethin'  with  it  'sides  sittin'  back  as  though 
he  was  elected  to  glory  and  go  on  cheatin'  and  grindin' 
in  business  as  though  his  religion  didn't  have  nothin'  to 
do  with  that." 

"Say,  Freem,  you'll  be  preaching  a  sermon  next." 

"No,  I'd  make  a  mighty  poor  preacher,  though  some  of 
'em  ain't  a  bad  lot  if  you  c'n  git  down  underneath  their 
preacher  coat  and  git  at  the  man.  They  have  a  hard  lot 
to  my  thinkin'.  Their  churches  treat  'em  most  as  if  they 
was  beggars,  and  begrudge  every  cent  they  git,  and  if 
they  can't  run  'em  they  hev  to  set  there  and  wait  with 
their  ear  in  the  air  for  the  Lord  to  call  them  to  another 
field.  Sometimes,  too,  the  Lord's  call  they  hear  to  move 
somewhere  else  is  mighty  like  the  jingle  of  more  money 
than  they're  gettin'." 

"The  laborer  is  worthy  his  hire,  you  know,  Freeman." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  sayin'  they  oughtn't  to  git  more  money, 
and  that  they  oughtn  't  to  take  more  money  when  they  can 
git  it,  but  I  don't  want  'em  to  measure  the  quality  of  the 
Lord's  voice  by  the  size  of  the  salary  paid." 

"But,  Freeman,  these  spiritualists  or  whatever  they  are 
charge  money  for  their  services,  don't  they?" 

"Gosh,  I  nearly  forgot  about  those  fellows.  They  don't 
charge.  They  take  what  you  give  'em." 

"How'd  you  happen  to  get  drawn  into  their  perform- 
ance?" 

"Why,  I  know  both  of  them,  o'  course.  And  you  do, 
too.  One  is  George  Harbaugh,  the  harness  maker,  and  the 
other  is  Harry  Kingsbury.  They  ain't  got  any  education, 
but  they  discovered  that  they  was  able  to  do  funny  things, 
and  heard  voices  and  such  like.  Somebody  told  them  it 
was  spirits,  and  they  felt  the  call  to  go  out  and  do  things. 
Ain't  they  got  just  as  much  right  to  have  a  call  from  the 
A 'mighty  as  anyone  else?" 

"Sure!  Look  at  the  fishermen  and  other  fellows  that 
became  great  teachers  of  goodness  through  the  call  of 
Christ." 

"Yes.  "Well,  as  I  said,  they  had  the  call  and  started 
out.  They  go  into  some  kind  of  a  spell  and  God  knows 

[173] 


where  they  get  the  stuff  they  chatter,  I  don't.  Neither  do 
I  think  the  fellows  can  invent  it,  because  it  would  take  a 
smart  man  to  hatch  up  a  fraud  in  the  things  they're  doin' 
and  neither  of  them  is  more'n  ordinary." 

"What  is  the  language  they  use?" 

"They  say  it's  Injun  talk  and  maybe  'tis.  I  ain't  long 
on  languages.  It  may  be  Chinese  for  all  I  know,  but  I  do 
know  they're  doin'  some  strange  things,  and  if  they  can 
cure  your  leg  what  in  thunder  do  you  care  what  they  are 
or  claim  to  be?" 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  care  what  they  called  themselves,  but  I 
don't  believe  they  can  do  it." 

"You  don't  have  to  believe.  That's  the  funny  part  of 
it.  All  you  got  to  do  is  to  let  'em  work  on  you.  I'd  like 
to  see  you  with  a  well  leg,  Doc.  I  sure  would,  and  I've 
taken'  the  liberty  of  talkin'  with  'em  about  it." 

"You  have!    And  what  did  they  say?" 

"They  said  they  didn't  know  what  they  could  do  till 
the  spirits  told  'em." 

"Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  that  the  spirits  will  come 
down  to  these  fellows  and  show  'em  how  to  cure  a  sore 
leg,  especially  on  a  cuss  that  hasn't  any  faith  in  them  at 
all?" 

"I  don't  expect  you  to  believe  nothin'.  Tain't  like  you 
was  goin'  to  take  a  lot  of  medicine  that  might  upset  your 
innards,  or  they  was  goin'  to  put  some  stuff  on  your  leg 
that  might  make  you  have  to  have  it  cut  off  afterwards. 
They  just  put  out  their  hands  and  say  their  '  eeny-meeny- 
mony-mi-posca-lana-boni-stry, '  and  the  rest  of  it,  and  if 
it  works  you're  'it.'  That's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"They  want  to  do  it  out  in  public,  don't  they?" 

""WHftu  yes.  But  everybody  in  town  knows  you've  got  a 
bad  leg,  don't  they?  If  they  do,  what's  the  difference? 
If  they  don't  help  you  it  hurts  them,  don't  it?  They've 
got  as  many  chances  to  take  as  you  have,  and  if  they  do 
help  you  what  do  you  care  what  people  think?  If  they 
don't  help  you  you  can  say,  'I  told  you  so,'  and  that's  all 
there'll  be  to  it." 

[174] 


"You  haven't  gone  proselyting  for  these  spiritualists, 
have  you,  Freeman  Teeguarden?" 

"I  ain't  proselytin'  for  nobody,  but  I'd  like  to  see  your 
leg  cured." 

"All  right,  old  man.  I'll  just  go  you.  Tell  them  I'll  be 
their  victim,  or  subject,  or  whatever  it  is,  if  for  no  other 
reason  than  to  demonstrate  my  appreciation  of  your 
thoughtfulness.  But  you're  the  last  man  I'd  expect  to  go 
off  on  a  religious  tangent.  It's  worth  the  experiment  just 
to  see  you  interested  in  any  kind  of  religion." 

"Don't  joke  about  it,  Doc.  I  know  you  ain't  had  much 
call  to  count  me  among  the  saints,  but  I  don't  believe 
there's  a  man  livin'  who  doesn't,  way  down  in  his  heart, 
think  on  these  things,  even  if  his  thoughts  along  that  line 
don't  bubble  up  to  the  surface  much.  I  don't  know  noth- 
in'  about  this  spiritualism  business,  but  what  I  see  I  can 
see,  can't  I?  They  can't  fake  your  leg  on  me,  can  they? 
And  they  can't  pretend  to  have  helped  it  and  not  done 
it,  with  me  here  and  helpin'  you  dress  it  as  many  times 
as  I  have?  We'll  see  what  they  can  do  and  then  talk 
about  belief  and  unbelief  afterwards." 

When  it  came  time,  therefore,  the  postmaster-editor 
went  on  the  table  and  the  performance, — if  that  is  the 
term — began.  The  two  men  no  sooner  laid  hands  on  him 
that  he  felt  as  though  he  was  in  a  fiery  furnace.  Great 
waves  of  heat  ran  up  and  down  his  body  and  centered  in 
his  affected  limb.  While  they  were  in  the  midst  of  it  the 
operators  suddenly  stopped,  consulted  for  a  moment  in  an 
unknown  tongue,  and  one  of  them  spoke : 

"Too  much  clothes  on  white  man.  Injun  say  stop  till 
clothes  are  off.  We  go  somewhere  and  take  clothes  off." 

So  operations  were  suspended  and  Clarke,  with  a  few 
of  his  intimate  friends,  went  into  the  printing  office.  He 
stripped  himself  and  they  went  at  it  again.  There  was  no 
question  that  some  peculiar  phenomenon  was  being  ex- 
perienced by  him,  and  he  could  not  doubt  that  there  was 
some  kind  of  change  going  on  in  the  leg.  When  they  had 
been  working  for  some  time,  rapidly,  vigorously,  they 
ceased  their  efforts,  returned  apparently  to  their  normal 

[175] 


condition  and  told  the  subject  that  they  would  continue 
their  efforts  on  the  morrow.  This  programme  was  re- 
peated daily  for  nearly  a  week,  at  the  end  of  which  time 
there  rolled  off  from  the  leg  a  mass  of  diseased  tissue, 
leaving  it  in  a  comparatively  healthy  condition.  Asked 
for  an  explanation  afterwards,  Clarke  said : 

"I  can't  explain.  I  am  like  the  blind  man  in  the  Bible, 
who  said,  'One  thing  I  know:  that  whereas  I  was  blind, 
now  I  see.'  One  thing  I  know:  whereas  I  had  a  bad  leg, 
now  it  is  better.  I  take  it  as  coming  from  God,  whatever 
the  means  of  communication  may  have  been.  I  have  al- 
ways been  in  the  habit  of  giving  God  the  credit  of  any 
blessings  that  came  to  me,  and  I  never  put  the  burden  of 
responsibility  for  misfortune  on  His  shoulders.  If,  as 
these  men  believe,  their  peculiar  power  comes  through 
spirits  in  direct  contact  with  us  through  them,  let  it  be  so. 
I  don't  always  stop  to  look  at  the  name  of  the  builder 
when  I  cross  a  bridge,  but  I  none  the  less  pay  tribute  to 
the  excellence  of  his  work  when  I  venture  without  fear 
to  use  it.  His  name  may  not  appear  among  those  accepted 
by  the  self-constituted  authorities  on  architecture,  and 
they  may  even  ridicule  the  possibility  that  anyone  other 
than  the  elect  could  build  a  bridge.  But  it  is  there  and 
we  use  it.  I  take  it  there  may  be  some  such  condition  in 
creeds.  You  and  I  may  not  have  even  heard  of  a  belief 
and  yet  its  follower  may  get  close  to  God  in  his  peculiar 
form  of  worship.  I'm  with  Teeguarden:  A  man's  reli- 
gion is  entitled  to  be  measured  by  what  it  does  for  him, 
and  what  it  enables  him  and  prompts  him  to  do  for  his 
fellow  man.  When  a  man  declares  he  has  discovered  the 
only  creed  by  which  a  man  can  get  to  Heaven,  and  spends 
alniis  time  criticising  other  beliefs  instead  of  seeking  how 
he  can  demonstrate  the  good  effects  of  his  religion  on 
himself  and  his  fellows,  you  may  be  sure  that,  though  the 
road  itself  may  be  right,  St.  Peter  won't  give  him  much  of 
a  welcome  when  he  reaches  the  end.  I  think  about  the 
first  thing  he'll  ask  is  not  'What  do  you  believe?'  but, 
'What  have  you  been  doing?'  ' 

"I  don't  know  how  you  feel  about  this  thing,  Doc," 

[176] 


said  Teeguarden,  "But  I  ain't  satisfied  to  stop  here.  If 
God's  got  any  hand  in  this  business  I  want  to  know  it." 

"That's  where  you've  been  wrong  all  this  time,  Free- 
man. God  has  a  hand  in  all  good  work,  and  you  wouldn't 
acknowledge  it.  This  ain't  the  only  miracle  the  world  has 
seen  or  will  see.  When  Doc  Parker  studied  and  worked 
to  learn  his  profession,  and  then  when  he  saved  the  life 
of  old  man  Beemis  the  other  day  it  was  a  miracle,  and 
God  had  a  hand  in  it,  working  through  Doc  Parker.  But 
he  began  working  out  the  miracle  a  long  time  ago.  When 
I  came  up  here  after  losing  all  my  folks,  and  was  taken 
out  of  Old  Man  Smith's  hands,  and  when  I  came  into 
town,  and  finally  got  a  chance  to  live  and  be  somebody, 
I  was  working  out  a  miracle." 

"Yes,  but  Doc,  didn't  you  ever  think  that  maybe  your 
mother  and  grandmother  and  folks  was  watchin'  you  and 
helpin'  you?" 

"Have  you  got  so  you  believe  in  it,  Freeman?" 

' '  I  ain  't  sayin '  how  far  I  've  got,  but  it  looks  as  if  I  was 
gettin'  there." 

"Well,  peace  be  with  you!    That's  all  I  can  say." 

Teeguarden  came  to  be  one  of  the  mainstays  of  the 
spiritualists  in  northern  Indiana  and  his  home  was  many 
times  used  for  seances  by  those  of  that  faith.  Clarke, 
when  he  saw  the  earnestness  with  which  his  friend  ac- 
cepted the  belief,  after  the  years  that  he  had  been  apa- 
thetic on  all  religious  questions,  he  forbore  any  suggestion 
or  criticism. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  wonder  what  con- 
trolled those  men  when  they  were  working  on  me?" 

And  he  never  answered  the  question  to  his  own  satis- 
faction. 


12  [177] 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

The  probability  is  that  the  Jenkins  family  Bible  would 
not  give  the  name  that  way,  but  according  to  the  chroni- 
cles of  the  village  boys  the  particular  Jenkins  in  whom 
they  were  interested  bore  the  title  Philander  Philester 
Peter  Sylvester  George  Washington  Christopher  Colum- 
bus H.  Jenkins.  This  may  have  been  due  to  the  fact  that 
he  stammered  so  that  when  he  pronounced  his  name  it 
sounded  something  like  the  combination  given.  Of  course 
the  full  name  was  seldom  used  except  when  Sylvester 
manifested  a  disposition  to  be  vexed  over  its  use,  at  which 
time  his  tormentors  would  recite  it  in  chorus.  It  was  said 
that  there  were  only  two  occasions  on  which  his  impedi- 
ment was  unnoticeable,  namely,  when  he  swore  and  when 
he  prayed.  At  such  time  the  strings  on  his  tongue  were 
loosened  and  the  words  would  roll  out  in  an  undammed 
torrent.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  with  the  knowledge  of 
this  peculiarity  in  possession  of  his  fellows  the  opportuni- 
ties were  frequently  given  for  indulgence  in  straight  talk 
by  Jenkins,  and  it  was  usually  the  reverse  of  praying. 
Despite  his  limitation  of  speech,  "Ves"  succeeded  in 
training  himself  as  a  ventriloquist,  and  discovered  that  his 
ventriloquial  voice  also  came  out  unfettered.  It  was  a 
great  find  for  him,  and  he  practiced  diligently  until  he 
was  master  of  the  art.  He  entertained  the  young  men 
of  the  town  with  private  exhibitions  of  his  skill  at  divers 
times,  and  his  proficiency  could  not  be  gainsaid. 

At  about  the  time  of  Bascom's  advent  into  Coif  ax,  one 
Aaron  Weir  descended  upon  the  village.  He  was  an  ex- 
pert lather  and  could  drive  more  nails  than  any  man 
before  or  since  his  time.  He  would  fill  his  mouth  with 
lath  nails  and  with  one  hand  holding  the  hatchet  and  the 
other  supplying  ammunition,  he  would  nail  a  hundred 
yards  before  the  ordinary  man  would  seemingly  get  ready 

[178] 


to  hit  the  first  nail.  Because  his  name  was  Aaron  he  was 
dubbed  "Moses,"  almost  before  he  was  sufficiently  ac- 
quainted in  the  town  to  warrant  such  familiarity.  Weir 
was  the  dude  of  the  community.  When  not  at  work  he 
dressed  himself  in  a  perfect  fitting  suit,  blacked  his  shoes 
till  they  shone  like  mirrors,  carefully  oiled  and  combed  his 
hair  and  topped  it  all  with  a  silk  hat.  Shades  of  Chester- 
field! Could  the  town  stand  for  it?  Well,  it  did,  and 
Aaron  proved  not  so  bad  a  fellow.  To  be  sure,  he  assumed 
the  air  of  a  much  traveled  man,  and  one  wise  to  the  vani- 
ties of  the  world,  but  he  probably  had  a  right  to  the  as- 
sumption. He  earned  good  wages,  big  money  for  those 
times,  on  account  of  his  superior  skill,  and  was  a  liberal 
spender. 

Aaron  heard  Jenkins  in  his  ventriloquism  and  conceived 
the  idea  of  putting  it  to  profit.  So  the  firm  of  Weir  and 
Jenkins  was  organized  for  the  show  business  with  "Ves" 
for  the  principal  performer  and  "Moses"  as  advance 
agent,  publicity  man,  business  manager  and  ring-master. 
"Peter  Hunch"  and  "Judy,"  the  puppets  that  were  to 
move  their  jaws  and  wag  their  heads,  simulating  the  con- 
versations which  the  ventriloquist  was  to  furnish  them, 
were  brought  from  Chicago,  and  "Ves"  put  in  all  his 
spare  time  and  some  more  getting  the  swing  of  the  lingo. 

The  "Society  of  Uplift"  in  Coif  ax  decided  that  as  the 
show  originated  in  the  village  the  local  people  ought  to 
have  the  opportunity  to  enjoy  the  performance  before  it 
went  out  to  take  its  place  with  the  amusement  enterprises 
of  the  world.  By  a  little  persuasion  Weir  and  Jenkins 
consented  to  the  arrangement,  especially  when  it  was  an- 
nounced to  them  that  the  trustees  of  the  school  district 
agreed  to  permit  the  use  of  the  school  house  free  for  the 
exhibition,  a  concession  wrested  from  them  by  Clarke  and 
his  compatriots  of  the  "Uplifters"  on  the  representation 
that  they  would  help  advertise  the  town. 

Had  the  two  individuals  most  interested  realized  the 
evening  in  store  for  them,  they  doubtless  would  have 
dodged,  even  with  the  offer  of  a  free  show  room,  and  gone 
elsewhere  to  begin  their  career.  But,  believing  implicitly 

[179] 


in  the  merit  of  the  performance  to  be  given  they  tried  to 
act  as  though  they  had  been  in  the  business  all  their  lives. 
Aaron,  with  an  extra  touch  of  wax  on  his  mustache,  and 
arrayed  in  his  "  Sunday-go-to-meetin  's, "  walked  with  im- 
pressive dignity  up  and  down  the  streets  making  the 
necessary  arrangements  for  the  show.  "Ves,"  with  a 
newly  acquired  swagger,  posed  at  different  places  in  the 
village  that  the  wondering  eyes  of  the  public  might  behold 
him  ere  he  departed  to  rise  to  that  place  where  Lawrence 
Barrett  and  P.  T.  Barnum  would  crave  his  acquaintance. 

If  the  Biblical  saying,  "A  prophet  is  not  without  honor 
save  in  his  own  country,"  was  not  proven  on  the  night  of 
the  entertainment,  it  never  will  be.  All  the  male  portion 
of  the  town  was  there,  and  nothing  but  standing  room  was 
to  be  had  by  the  late  comers.  Through  sundry  quiet  hints 
the  feminine  Colfaxites  had  concluded  to  remain  at  home. 
Aaron,  as  master  of  ceremonies,  introduced  "Professor" 
Jenkins,  the  "world  renowned  ventriloquist,  whose  mar- 
velous ability  to  throw  his  voice  from  place  to  place  would 
challenge  the  admiration  of  all."  He  congratulated  the 
"city"  of  Coif  ax  on  having  "produced  such  a  genius," 
and  prophesied  that  he  would  astonish  this  country  and 
wrest  glory  from  the  old  world. 

"Professor"  Jenkins  appeared  and  was  greeted  with  a 
long  continued  outburst  of  applause.  The  puppets  were 
placed  in  position  and  the  show  began.  Getting  the  range 
the  sound  came  as  of  the  bleating  of  sheep  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  then  a  voice  broke  in  with  "Here,  Bull !  Here, 
Bull!" 

Somebody  in  the  audience  responded  with  a  well  simu- 
lated " Bow-wow-wo w-gr-r-r-r-r-r "  of  a  dog.  The  "Pro- 
fessor" was  disconcerted  and  mad  at  the  interruption,  and 
he  took  occasion  to  let  loose  a  chain  of  "cuss  words"  not 
in  the  long  practiced  programme.  Dog-howls  and  sheep 
bleats  responded  from  all  parts  of  the  house. 

Little  Sammy  Jenkins,  a  brother  of  the  performer, 
had  insisted  on  having  a  seat  on  the  stage  that  the  people 
might  know  that  he  was  a  blood  relative  of  the  performer. 
Fearing  that  his  brother's  speech  might  fail  him  in  a 

[180] 


situation  so  desperate  he  demonstrated  his  early  and 
complete  education  in  the  art  of  picturesque  epithets. 
Jenkins  pulled  a  horse  pistol  that  looked  like  the  entrance 
to  the  tunnel  under  East  River,  and  declared  his  readiness 
to  use  the  same  if  the  disturbance  did  not  stop.  This  had 
the  effect  of  quieting  the  house  for  a  few  minutes  and 
the  performance  proceeded. 

"Peter  Hunch"  had  just  commenced  his  altercation 
with  his  wife,  "Judy,"  when  Peter  laughed.  Amidst  the 
applause,  which  accompanied  everything  done  or  said  on 
the  stage,  a  shower  of  oyster  cans  and  vegetables  fell 
around  "Professor"  Jenkins,  but  with  it  was  a  bouquet 
of  artificial  flowers,  obtained  from  the  village  milliner 
for  the  occasion.  Here  was  the  tribute  of  the  local  popu- 
lace to  his  accomplishment,  and  with  a  low  bow  Jenkins 
stepped  forward  to  receive  it.  But  the  rubber  string 
attached  to  it  got  into  action  at  this  time  and  the  bouquet 
sailed  over  the  heads  of  the  audience  to  the  back  part 
of  the  room. 

Sammy  found  a  corn  knife  and  threatened  'Squire  Park, 
the  village  factotum,  for  neglect  of  duty.  The  'Squire 
commanded  peace,  but  the  virgin  dove  was  evidently 
roosting  with  clipped  wings  at  some  distance  from  the 
school  house.  "Mose,"  who  had  been  attending  to  the 
work  of  checking  up  the  cash,  appeared  at  about  this 
time,  to  reinforce  his  beleagured  partner,  and  by  persua- 
sion, argument  and  threats  they  finished  the  entertain- 
ment. The  entire  audience  offered  to  escort  "Ves"  home 
after  the  show,  but  he  held  them  all  off  by  indiscriminate 
flourishing  of  the  old  pistol,  taking  time,  however,  to 
remark : 

"The  d-d-dif-ference  b-b-between  m-me  and  you  f-f-fel- 
lel-lows  is  that  I'm  a  f-f-f-fool  for  m-m-money,  and 
y-y-you're  a  s-s-set  of  damned  f-f-f-fools  for  n-n-nothing, 
and  y-y-you  ain't  g-g-got  you're  m-m-money 's  w-w-w-orth. 
I'm  taking  along  f-f-f-forty  dollars  and  over  of  y-y-y-your 
money,  and  y-y-you  ain't  e-e-even  had  a  g-g-good  time." 

"The  trouble  was,"  remarked  Bascom  Clarke  to  him,  in 
an  attempt  to  smooth  his  ruffled  spirit,  "the  trouble  was 

[181] 


you  made  too  quick  a  change  from  'Ves'  Jenkins  to 
'Professor'  Jenkins  for  the  dull  minds  of  the  town  folks 
to  appreciate  it.  You  should  'a'  gone  away  and  stayed 
long  enough  for  the  people  to  forget  you,  then  come  and 
rung  the  front  door  bell  of  the  village  after  havin'  licked 
the  world  into  eatin '  out  of  your  hand,  and  they  'd  worship 
you  as  a  little  tin  god.  If  you  try  to  make  good  in  a  new 
fangled  way  in  your  home  town  you  are  bound  to  be 
hazed.  But  forty  dollars  worth  of  shinplasters  ought  to 
be  mighty  good  healin'  for  a  damaged  'artistic  tempera- 
ment,' if  that's  what  you  call  it.  Tell  you  what,  'Ves,' 
while  they've  heaped  a  pile  of  ridicule  on  you,  and  threw 
a  few  bits  of  offensive  bric-a-brac,  deep  down  in  their 
gizzards  they're  admirin'  your  pluck  and  wishing  they 
could  do  the  turn  half  as  well.  More'n  fifty  per  cent  of 
the  clubs  a  feller's  hit  with  are  envy,  anyhow." 

"B-b-b-but  it's  darn  h-h-hard,  Doc,  to  work  1-1-1-like  the 
old  H-h-h-h-h-harry  to  g-g-g-et  up  something  g-g-good  and 
be  t-t-t-treated  like  a  d-d-dog, ' '  protested  the  professor. 

"That's  because  the  show  was  all  right,  'Ves.'  If  you 
wasn't  doin'  all  right  they'd  a  just  pitied  you  and  went 
home  without  saying  anything.  Nobody  threw  any  stones 
at  St.  Stephen  till  he  was  makin'  good." 

"And  y-y-you  think  I-I-I-I  was  m-m-m-makin '  good?" 

"You  sure  were,  'Ves.'  And  I'm  probably  responsible 
for  the  whole  row.  "We  fellows  that  knew  you  best 
planned  to  have  a  little  fun,  like  the  bouquet  stunt  and 
things  like  that,  and  it  turned  into  a  riot.  It  just  goes 
to  show  that  you'd  better  not  start  a  fire  in  the  open  un- 
less the  children  are  herded." 

With  his  injured  feelings  relieved  by  this  lingual  oil 
applied  by  "Doc"  Clarke,  "Professor"  Jenkins  departed 
for  home  with  his  dignity  and  calm  restored. 

But  his  troubles  were  not  at  an  end,  for  he  had  yet  to  go 
through  the  fiery  furnace  of  matrimony.  Having  been  an 
enthusiastic  participant  himself  in  more  than  one  chariv- 
ari party  he  knew  what  to  expect,  and  so  when  he  con- 
templated entering  the  marital  state  he  did  not  presume 
on  immunity  from  a  "serenade." 

[182] 


From  Jenkins'  actions  more  than  from  his  words  his 
girl  up  the  country  gathered  that  he  wanted  to  marry 
her.  At  the  end  of  his  choking,  gasping,  spluttering 
speech  in  which  he  conveyed,  or  sought  to  convey,  his 
suggested  nuptial  arrangement,  and  after  she  had  said, 
"Oh,  Ves,  this  is  so  sudden,"  and  cried  a  little  on  his 
shirt  front,  it  was  noticed  that  he  seemed  to  have  con- 
siderable more  exhuberance  of  spirit  than  before.  He 
greased  his  boots  with  more  care  and  greater  frequency, 
wore  his  ancient ' '  stove-pipe ' '  hat  on  the  side  of  his  head, 
tilted  his  Wheeling  stogie  in  the  side  of  his  mouth  at  an 
angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  and  drove  his  mule  through 
the  streets  of  the  town  with  an  air  of  supreme  importance. 
As  the  girl  lived  some  distance  up  the  country  the  news 
of  his  courtship  had  not  reached  town,  though  his  fre- 
quent absences  from  the  village  on  Sundays  ought  to  have 
raised  suspicion.  However,  his  conduct  was  so  indicative 
of  his  frame  of  mind  that  on  the  general  symptoms  he 
was  finally  charged  with  contemplating  matrimony.  With 
much  surprise  he  asked: 

"H-h-h-how'd  you  g-g-g-guess  it?" 

The  wedding  day  arrived,  and  at  7  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing 'Squire  Park  pronounced  the  words  which  made  the 
twain  man  and  wife.  As  was  the  custom  everybody  pres- 
ent was  privileged  to  kiss  the  bride,  and  in  the  confusion 
it  was  some  time  before  Jenkins  discovered  that  the  pro- 
cession was  an  endless  chain  and  that  the  young  swains 
of  the  village  were  then  on  their  fourth  round  of  oscula- 
tory  greetings.  Here  is  where  he  balked  and  the  line 
was  broken.  As  the  boys  departed  they  took  occasion  to 
advise  Ves  that  they  would  see  him  later. 

"No,  you  w-w-w- won't.  T-t-t- there  ain't  no  use  of 
y.y-y.your  trying  the  '  shiveree '  game  on  us.  It 's  n-n-n-no 
go." 

It  was  like  an  invitation  to  come  and  make  the  night 
hideous,  and  preparations  were  made  accordingly.  A 
"horse-fiddle"  was  constructed.  A  "horse-fiddle"  or 
"dumb-bull"  is  made  by  taking  a  dry-goods  box  of  ample 
dimensions,  boring  an  auger-hole  in  opposite  sides, 

[183] 


through  which  a  well  rosined  raw-hide  is  drawn.  The  re- 
sultant sound  would  do  credit  to  the  demoniacal  groans 
of  the  inhabitants  of  Hades.  This,  with  some  tin  horns, 
half  a  dozen  farm  bells  borrowed  from  the  hardware 
store,  a  bass-drum,  cow-bells  and  a  number  of  double- 
barrelled  shot  guns  made  up  the  outfit  of  noise  producers. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jenkins,  Junior,  were  temporarily  quartered 
in  the  log  home  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jenkins,  Senior,  whither 
the  party  proceeded.  The  ball  opened  with  a  volley  from 
the  guns,  followed  by  a  general  fusilade  of  incongruous 
sound,  supported  by  the  bass-drum  and  grunts  of  the 
"horse-fiddle." 

"Pa"  Jenkins  came  out  and  ordered  them  all  off  the 
premises,  at  the  same  time  letting  loose  two  savage  dogs 
with  a  "Sic  'em!"  to  stimulate  their  attack.  A  volley 
from  the  shot  guns  and  a  yell  from  the  attacking  party 
caused  the  dogs  to  lose  heart.  They  turned  tail  and  ran. 
Still  the  besieged  party  held  out.  The  din  was  renewed. 
Mother  Jenkins,  with  a  fire  poker  charged  the  tormentors 
single-handed,  and  they  retired  to  a  safe  distance  until 
she  returned  to  the  house,  when  the  attack  was  renewed 
with  redoubled  vigor. 

The  house  still  refused  to  capitulate,  although  all  well 
knew  the  terms  by  which  they  could  secure  peace.  It  was 
the  unwritten  law  that  any  kind  of  treat  given  would  re- 
sult in  immediate  cessation  of  hostilities.  Having  failed 
by  the  ordinary  methods  to  secure  a  reduction  of  the  fort- 
ress, the  extreme  measures  were  resorted  to,  which  con- 
sisted in  hoisting  a  fellow  to  the  roof,  armed  with  a  big 
gunnysack.  This  he  proceeded  to  stuff  into  the  top  of 
the  chimney  and  the  smoke  from  the  fire  poured  into  the 
house.  The  doors  were  opened  and  the  windows,  but  there 
was  no  living  in  the  atmosphere.  Mother  Jenkins,  at  the 
earnest  solicitation  of  the  bride  and  groom,  brought  out 
a  half-bushel  of  grindstone  apples,  and  Ves  escorted  the 
party  to  the  village  for  further  refreshments.  The  plug 
was  removed  from  the  chimney  and  quietness  reigned. 
When  young  Jenkins  arrived  back  home  he  found  a  fifty 
dollar  bedroom  suite  as  a  present  from  the  boys.  It  had 

[184] 


been  brought  in  and  set  up  during  his  absence.  He  looked 
at  it  in  surprised  pleasure,  then  turned  to  his  late  tor- 
mentors and  said : 

"Durn  your  f-f-f-fool  souls.  Y-y-y-you  always  end  up 
a-a-a-all  right.  I  g-g-guess  you're  t-t-t-tryin'  to  imitate 
the  A-a-almighty,  where  the  Bible  says,  '  Whom  the  L-lord 
1-1-loveth  he  c-c-c-c-chaseneth." 


[185] 


CHAPTEE  XXIII. 

It  was  four  years  after  his  arrival  in  Colfax  before 
Clarke  was  able  to  get  any  information  from  his  people 
in  the  south  or  let  them  know  he  was  alive.  He  mailed 
letter  after  letter,  composed  at  great  trouble,  owing  to  his 
meager  education,  and  addressed  them  to  Mt.  Adams, 
Crockett's  Bluff  and  other  places  where  he  thought  they 
might  be  found.  This  was  before  the  reconstruction  and 
re-establishment  of  postoffices  in  any  but  the  most  im- 
portant places.  Finally,  a  letter  addressed  to  his  brother 
at  Crockett's  Bluff  attracted  the  attention  of  the  post- 
master, who,  seeing  the  postmark  of  an  Indiana  town,  and 
recalling  the  fact  that  the  refugee  boy  had  gone  north  on 
a  transport  with  Indiana  troops,  made  the  delivery  of  the 
letter  possible. 

And  thus,  like  a  voice  from  the  grave,  there  came  to 
them  the  knowledge  that  Bascom  lived.  They  had  given 
him  up  as  lost  to  them  forever.  A  letter  was  sent  to  him 
urging  him  to  come  back,  and  when  he  received  it  his 
heart  strings  were  pulled  in  the  direction  of  the  old  home. 
But  he  could  see  no  hope  of  a  future  there,  and  made  up 
his  mind  to  fight  out  the  battle  in  the  place  where  God 
had  planted  his  feet  at  the  end  of  the  long  journey  of 
misfortune  and  privation.  His  brother  had  served  in  the 
Confederate  army,  and  afterwards  died  from  diseases  con- 
tracted during  the  struggle.  His  sisters  married  and  were 
busy  with  their  homes  and  families.  Though  he  kept  in 
constant  correspondence  with  them  he  was  not  privileged 
to  see  them  until  fourteen  years  after  he  had  left 
Arkansas. 

With  his  wife  and  little  boy  he  then  accompanied  the 
Indiana  Editorial  Association  on  its  annual  junket,  which 
included  Arkansas.  He  left  the  party  at  Little  Rock  and 
went  down  the  White  River  to  his  people.  No  pen  is 

[186] 


needed  to  record  that  reunion.  The  conjuring  forces  of 
the  imagination  can  paint  the  picture  better  than  it  can 
be  described,  as  the  sisters,  weeping  with  happiness, 
clasped  their  arms  around  his  neck  and  looked  into  his 
eyes. 

When  he  told  his  story  and  showed  how  he  had  found 
friends  in  his  new  home,  and  how  he  had  been  enabled 
to  make  a  place  for  himself,  he  said : 

''I  went  up  there,  hating  the  north  and  despising  the 
people  as  cruel  monsters,  for  so  the  picture  had  been 
painted  to  me  as  a  boy.  I  found  a  flowing  bowl  of  love 
and  kindness.  I  was  taken  up  there  practically  a  slave 
in  the  hands  of  a  cruel  southerner.  I  was  freed  and  given 
a  home  by  one  of  the  'monsters'  who  had  been  putting  in 
his  best  licks  helping  to  save  the  Union.  Women,  the 
mothers  and  wives  of  these  hated  people,  were  mothers  to 
me,  and  in  the  hours  of  my  desolation  gave  me  that  sweet 
sympathy  which  made  it  possible  to  bear  my  burdens. 
Men,  who  were  derided,  scoffed  at  and  ridiculed  by  my 
people  of  the  south,  gave  me  their  hands  and  their  friend- 
ship, and  never  once  have  I  heard  them  refer  to  me  or 
my  people  as  not  entitled  to  the  utmost  consideration. 
Talk  about  'southern  hospitality,'  I'll  match  you  act  for 
act,  person  for  person,  unselfishness  for  unselfishness  with 
my  friends  in  the  north.  Maybe  God  transplanted  me  that 
I  might  come  back  and  testify  to  the  fact  that  we  are  one 
people." 

"But,  Bascom,  don't  talk  politics  down  here.  The  peo- 
ple are  smarting  over  the  results  of  the  war,  and  there  is 
much  bitterness  yet." 

Thus  spoke  one  sister,  fearful  that  an  avalanche  of 
his  enthusiastic  sentiment  might  cause  trouble. 

"Don't  you  worry,  Lucy.  I'm  here  to  visit  friends, 
not  to  talk  politics,  but  if  any  one  shall  ask  me  for  in- 
formation concerning  the  feeling  in  the  north  I  shall  tell 
them  the  truth.  How  else  are  they  to  be  advised?  Com- 
plete peace  will  never  come  until  these  people  north  and 
south  get  to  know  each  other  better.  If  I  should  come 
south  and  keep  my  mouth  shut  as  to  the  character  of  the 

[187] 


people  who  gave  me  their  friendship,  I  should  be  disloyal 
to  them  and  to  the  honored  name  I  bear.  No  Clarke  was 
ever  afraid  to  speak  the  truth  or  defend  a  friend.  The 
northern  people  have  been  my  friends  and  proved  their 
right  to  the  title.  Why  should  I  be  dishonest  with  myself 
or  my  people  by  remainng  silent  as  to  their  virtues  ?  The 
men  in  the  south  who  fought  the  battles  of  the  Confeder- 
acy don't  want  me  to.  The  fellows,  on  either  side  of  the 
conflict,  who  did  the  fighting  won't  cause  much  trouble. 
The  mouth-fighters,  the  'bread  and  butter  soldiers,'  are 
having  their  time  now  and  I  understand  the  Ku-Klux  still 
exists.  These  people  belong  to  the  same  gang  as  the 
Knights  of  the  Golden  Circle  in  the  north,  commonly 
called  "Copperheads,"  whose  business  it  was  to  stab  the 
fighting  men  in  the  back.  Both  these  kinds  of  people  are 
not  worthy  of  consideration  and  ought  to  be  shaken  up  in 
a  common  pot  and  boiled  in  carbolic  acid  to  prevent  their 
contaminating  decent  society,  and  then  dumped  in  the 
garbage  heap." 

And  he  went  freely  about  among  his  old  neighbors, 
those  who  scarcely  remembered  him  as  a  boy,  but  who 
knew  the  family  and  were  cognizant  of  its  former  status. 

"What  do  they  think  about  the  war  up  there?"  asked 
Captain  Halla,  an  old  friend  of  his  father. 

"Why,  you  seldom  hear  anything  about  it.  The  war's 
over  in  the  north." 

"I  suppose  they'd  make  it  pretty  hot  for  a  southe'ner, 
if  he  ventured  up  thah." 

"Hot  for  him!  Why,  man,  I  told  you  that  the  war's 
over  up  there,  and  they  don't  make  any  distinction  be- 
tween northerner  and  southerner.  I  ought  to  know,  for 
I'm  a  southerner  and  I've  lived  among  'em  for  fourteen 
years. ' ' 

"Yes,  but  you  was  young  and  didn't  have  no  hand  in 
the  fight." 

"Well,  take  Jim  Dykes,  then.  Jim  surely  could  be 
charged  with  fighting  them,  for  he  was  taken  prisoner  in 
a  battle  and  was  kept  at  Fort  Delaware  till  freed  after  the 
war  ended.  He  didn't  come  south  again,  but  stayed  there 

[188] 


and  hired  out  as  a  farm  hand.  It  is  true  that  some  of  the 
non-combatants  at  first  called  him  a  "rebel,"  but  the 
people  themselves  hushed  'em  up  mighty  quick,  and 
treated  him  right.  He  married  one  of  Old  Man  Smith's 
daughters — the  family  I  went  north  with,  remember — 
and  did  well.  He  and  his  family  were  .honored  in  the 
community.  I  could  name  you  hundreds  of  others.  And 
I  know  of  Union  men  who  have  made  their  homes  in  the 
south  and  who  are  respected  and  contented.  Men  hunt- 
ing for  trouble  can  find  it  on  either  side  of  Mason  & 
Dixon's  line,  but  an  American  who  totes  square  will  find 
a  welcome  anywhere  in  any  section  of  the  Union 

"By  the  way,"  continued  Clarke,  "Old  Man  Smith 
came  back  to  Arkansas  after  the  war  was  over.  What 
became  of  him?" 

' '  Oh,  he  hung  around  here  awhile  damning  the  Yankees 
and  telling  blood-curdling  stories  of  their  treatment  of 
him,  and  finally  died.  They  buried  him  up  the  country 
somewhere,  and  I  don't  believe  anybody  could  find  the 
grave  if  they  wanted  to." 

"Well,  there's  a  fair  sample,  Captain.  Smith  was  taken 
up  north  because  he  represented  himself  to  be  a  Union 
man  pestered  and  threatened  by  the  southerners.  This 
government  he  spent  so  much  time  and  energy  damning 
gave  him  free  transportation  and  rations  to  a  place  of 
safety.  The  people  up  there  gave  him  work  and  helped 
him,  only  to  be  rewarded  by  his  disloyalty.  He  consorted 
with  the  'Copperheads'  and  abused  those  who  had  be- 
friended him.  His  family  was  different.  The  girls  and 
the  boys  found  themselves  homes,  and  the  sons-in-law 
were  industrious,  hard-working  men.  The  old  man's 
characteristics  were  not  approved  by  them,  neither  did 
they  believe  his  treatment  of  me  was  right.  I  don't  hold 
up  anything  against  him,  notwithstanding  he  led  me  a 
pretty  tough  life,  but  he  did  the  same  with  his  own  family, 
and  we'll  let  it  go  as  his  way.  The  girls,  and  especially 
the  oldest  one,  Tiney,  were  good  to  me  in  their  way  and 
the  boys  accepted  me  as  one  of  themselves.  The  old  man 
was  stubborn,  and  his  life  as  a  slave  driver  in  North 

[189] 


Carolina  hadn't  helped  him  to  a  genial  disposition.  He 
drove  his  own  family  in  much  the  same  manner  as  he 
drove  the  blacks.  But  I  can't  forget  the  fact  that  it  was 
he  who  made  it  possible  for  me  to  get  north  and  '  find  my- 
self,' as  the  saying  is.  I've  forgotten  his  roughness  and 
abuse  because  of  that  one  act." 

"I've  been  watching  your  language,  boy,  and  you-all 
don't  talk  like  a  southe'ner.  I  guess  the  weanin'  process 
was  pretty  complete." 

"If  I've  changed  it's  through  no  attempt  on  the  part 
of  the  people  up  there  to  make  me  change.  They  haven't 
poked  fun  at  me,  nor  thrown  my  style  of  talk  at  me.  I 
guess  I've  just  absorbed  it.  I've  studied  and  worked  to 
make  something  out  of  myself  that  would  be  a  credit  to 
my  people.  I  had  a  good  father  and  mother,  as  you  well 
know,  and  the  great  regret  in  my  home-coming  is  the  fact 
of  the  graves  over  there  on  the  hill.  I  wish  I  could  see 
and  talk  to  my  mother,  that  she  might  know  that  I  have 
been  true  to  the  teachings  she  and  father  gave  me  in  my 
boyhood." 

"They  were  good  people,  boy,  and  your  father  was  my 
best  friend." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  it,  sir,  and  you  may  rest 
assured  a  friend  of  my  father  is  a  friend  of  mine." 

Thus  he  went,  visiting  the  old  scenes  and  talking  with 
the  people,  fearlessly  discussing  the  war  and  its  results, 
and  spreading  the  gospel  of  a  re-united  nation  of  one 
people  under  one  flag.  When  he  left  he  received  evi- 
dences of  good  will  and  a  hearty  God-speed. 

He  missed  his  brother  Will,  for  he  had  wanted  to  dis- 
cuss with  him  the  new  relationship  between  the  north 
and  the  south.  The  brother  had  gone  to  his  reward  with 
the  feeling  that  the  south  was  eternally  right  and  the 
north  eternally  wrong.  He  had  refused  to  come  north 
on  a  visit  to  his  brother,  and  the  tone  of  his  letter  had 
indicated  that  he  at  least  was  un-reconstructed.  The 
bitterness  of  defeat  was  in  his  soul,  and  he  refused  to  be 
reconciled.  He  had  refused  to  go  north,  and  Bascom 
was  too  poor  to  come  south,  and  they  had  never  had  the 

[190] 


opportunity  to  talk  it  over,  brother  to  brother.  This 
shadow  was  perpetually  on  him  during  his  stay. 

"Poor  Will,"  Bascom  said  to  his  sister  Mary.  "He 
didn't  have  a  chance  to  realize  what  the  north  had  done 
for  me,  or  he  would  have  felt  differently.  Gratitude  would 
have  welled  up  in  his  heart,  for  whatever  was  done  for  me 
was  done  for  him.  He  never  knew  how  I  worshipped  him 
as  my  big  brother,  and  I  never  had  the  opportunity  to 
tell  him." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  knew,"  responded  the  sister.  "He  wanted 
to  see  you-all  befo'  he  died,  and  he  talked  about  you  con- 
tinually after  we  got  that  letter  from  you.  But  he  just 
couldn't  bring  hi 'self  to  make  the  journey.  I  think  he 
would  have  buried  his  pride  and  gone,  afterwards,  but 
his  health  was  such  that  he  dare  not  undertake  it.  He 
was  broken  down  and  discouraged  with  the  wreck  of 
things  in  the  south,  and  he  hadn  't  the  strength  to  take  up 
the  ha'd  fight  which  would  be  necessary  to  build  anew. 
You  couldn't  be  here  to  know  and  realize  what  we  had 
to  go  through.  The  war  had  ruined  us,  and  we  hadn't 
anything  to  begin  life  with  again.  The  niggers  were 
arrogant  and  independent,  and  practically  useless  from 
the  standpoint  of  labor.  They  rode  over  us  all,  and  made 
it  well-nigh  unendurable.  The  plantations  were  neglected 
or  at  best  poo  'ly  cultivated.  There  was  no  money,  except 
the  worthless  Confederate  scrip.  Wretchedness  was  on 
every  hand.  The  sick  and  crippled  soldiers  of  the  Con- 
federacy had  no  one  to  take  care  of  them  except  their 
neighbors  and  friends.  There  was  no  powerful  govern- 
ment to  put  them  in  hospitals  or  give  them  a  pension. 
The  state  treasury  was  empty.  All  had  been  spent  on  a 
lost  cause.  I  tell  you,  Bascom,  you  don't  know  what  it 
is  to  have  staked  your  last  dollar  on  what  you  believed 
to  be  your  bounden  duty,  and  then  have  to  view  the 
wreckage  of  your  hopes  with  an  empty  pocket.  If  the 
no 'them  people  have  one  ounce  of  pity,  just  a  glimpse 
at  our  sufferings  would  touch  them.  We  're  placed  in  the 
hands  of  an  ignorant,  incapable  race,  and  we  are  asked 
to  submit  in  patience  to  the  outrages  they  perpetrate. 

[191] 


No  no'therner  would  stand  for  it  any  more  than  a  southe'- 
ner,  if  the  conditions  were  reversed.  I  thank  God  you 
were  out  of  it  all.  It  was  the  answer  to  my  prayers  for 
your  safety,  night  after  night,  when  I  did  not  know  where 
you  were.  It  was  the  only  comfort  I  had.  I  could  go 
to  God  and  tell  Him  my  troubles,  and  He  comforted  me, 
or  I  couldn't  have  stood  it." 

"You  have  been  a  loyal  sister  to  me,  Mollie,  and  God 
has  been  good  to  me.  Your  prayers  have  been  answered, 
or  I  wouldn't  be  here  with  you.  You  have  been  through 
your  Gethsemane  and  you  are  still  here.  The  message  of 
confidence  I  have  brought  to  the  stricken  south,  from  the 
victors,  has  been  delivered,  and  I'll  return  with  a  prayer 
for  patience  and  consideration  on  the  part  of  the  north 
toward  my  people,  the  vanquished.  Let  us  hope  that  the 
time  will  come  when  both  sections  will  know  each  other 
better." 

"You  won't  always  stay  away  from  us,  will  you, 
brother?" 

"No,  I'm  the  head  of  the  Clarke  clan,  you  know,  by 
direct  line  of  succession,  and  it  wouldn't  do  for  me  to 
neglect  my  people,  would  it?"  he  answered,  playfully. 

"Yes,  thank  God,  you're  a  Clarke,"  she  answered. 


[192] 


/Splendid  Lives  V 
/Touched  Ibe  Rgf u 


NOTE. — "Mother"  Noble  was  92  years  old  at  the  time  this  picture  was 
taken,  in  1911,  a  year  before  her  death. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"Say,  boys,  it's  about  time  Doc  Clarke  reported  on  the 
state  of  the  Union,  ain't  it?  He's  been  down  among  the 
Johnnies  in  Arkansaw,  and  ought  to  have  first  hand  in- 
formation. ' ' 

Thus  Dan  White  opened  the  meeting  of  the  town  phil- 
osophers' club  in  the  drug  store,  a  short  time  after  the 
postmaster's  return. 

"He  don't  know  nothin'  about  the  state  of  the  Union," 
said  Dave  Ball.  "He  went  down  to  put  some  flowers  on 
Old  Man  Smith's  grave." 

When  the  laughter  had  subsided,  following  this  ob- 
servation, Freeman  Teguarden  spoke  up: 

"Naw,  you  fellers  don't  know  him.  He  went  down  to 
show  the  baby  to  his  folks.  They  ain't  no  man '11  travel 
further  or  endure  more  than  the  man  with  his  first  baby 
what  his  folks  haven't  seen.  We've  heerd  everythin' 
about  that  baby,  from  the  length  o'  time  the  doctor  was 
to  his  house  when  it  was  born  to  the  last  dido  it  cut  up, 
and  he  began  to  see  that  his  audience  was  losin'  inter- 
est." 

"W-w-w-well,  a  f-f-fel-1-ler  that  ain't  g-g-got  any 
p.p.p-pride  in  his  c-c-c-child-d-dren  oughtn't  t-t-t-t-to 
h-h-have  any,"  said  "Ves"  Jenkins. 

"There  speaks  the  fond  parent,"  observed  Doctor  Park- 
er. "He's  got  one  up  to  his  house,  you  know." 

' '  Know ! "  e j  aculated  'Squire  Parks.  ' '  Know !  Ves  was 
in  my  hotel  tellin'  about  it  before  they  got  the  kid 
washed." 

"They  tell  me,"  said  Clarke,  addressing  himself  to  the 
'Squire,  "They  tell  me  the  town  marshal  had  to  hold  you 
to  keep  you  from  ringing  the  school  bell  like  there  was  a 
fire  when  your  first  baby  was  born." 
13  [193] 


A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  this  unexpected  shot,  and 
Parks  laughed  as  heartily  as  any  of  the  others. 

' '  Well,  I  suppose  I  was  as  big  a  darn  fool  as  any  of  the 
others.  When  the  woman  you  love  goes  up  the  shore  of  the 
dark  river  and  comes  back  to  you  with  your  own  baby 
in  her  arms  a  man  ain't  to  blame  for  indulgin'  in  a  little 
celebration." 

"Yes,  but  from  the  way  he  carries  on  you  wouldn't 
think  he  gave  his  wife  much  credit.  He  goes  around  with 
his  head  up  in  the  air  as  if  sayin':  'See  what  I've 
done!'  "  chimed  in  "Bob"  Clark. 

Just  then  there  came  an  interruption.  A  young,  slim, 
boyish  looking  fellow  rushed  in,  in  evident  excitement.  It 
proved  to  be  Henry  Raines,  son-in-law  to  Benedict  Moore, 
the  saloon-keeper. 

"I  want  the  marshal!"  he  exclaimed. 

"What's  up?"  asked  the  postmaster. 

"Old  Moore's  got  my  wife  and  baby  locked  up  over  to 
his  house  and  won't  let  them  out." 

Several  of  the  men  sprang  to  their  feet  with  a  declara- 
tion that  they'd  make  short  work  of  the  rascal,  but  they 
were  stayed  by  cooler  heads.  They  located  Perry  Rowdy- 
house,  the  marshal,  and  hastily  summoned  him. 

' '  Tell  us  about  it, ' '  said  Perry,  ' '  so  we  can  get  the  right 
of  it." 

"Moore  was  married  before  and  his  first  wife  was  a 
good  woman,  too  good  for  the  likes  of  him.  They  had  a 
girl  baby,  and  in  spite  of  Moore's  dirty  ways  the  mother 
brought  the  girl  up  right.  There  ain't  no  better  woman 
in  the  world  than  my  wife.  After  the  girl's  mother  died 
Moore  married  this  helion,  and  they  wan't  never  no  peace 
for  her  arter  that.  They  ain't  either  one  on  'em  fitten 
to  have  the  care  of  a  pig,  to  say  nothin'  of  a  sweet  little 
girl.  They  certainly  didn't  set  no  example  fer  her  to  go 
by,  but  her  mother's  teachin's  and  examples  stuck  by  her, 
and  she  came  through  true  and  clean.  I  got  her  away 
from  'em  and  married  her.  They  made  a  racket  about  it, 
but  they  couldn't  do  nothin'.  Then  the  baby  came,  and 
they  got  cute.  They  began  to  give  my  wife  soft  stuff  and 


told  her  they  wanted  to  do  somethin'  for  the  baby,  and 
got  the  girl  to  go  over  there  with  their  mush  talk.  Soon 
as  ever  they  got  her  there  they  locked  the  door  on  her 
and  the  baby,  and  won't  let  her  come  out  to  me,  or  me  go 
to  see  'em.  I've  gone  up  there  and  demanded  that  they 
let  her  out,  and  they've  only  laughed  at  me  and  cussed  me 
for  my  pains.  They  told  me  to  keep  off  the  premises  or 
they'd  shoot  me  for  trespass.  I  ain't  af eared  o'  their 
shootin'  me,  and  I'd  fight  the  two  of  'em,  if  I  wasn't 
afraid  they'd  kill  the  girl  and  the  baby,  and  the  girl  ain't 
in  no  condition  yet  to  stand  a  row.  They  must  be  some 
way  fer  me  to  git  the  girl  and  the  baby,  and  I  thought 
the  marshal  could  help  me." 

"We'll  all  help,"  declared  the  postmaster.  "I'll  go 
over  with  you  and  help  you  get  'em." 

"You  bet!    We  all  will." 

"Now,"  said  the  marshal,  "Let's  not  get  hotheaded. 
When  I  was  in  the  army  we  never  got  nowhere  without 
lookin'  the  situation  over.  If  there's  any  shootin'  to  be 
done  at  anybody  it's  my  business  to  be  shot  at.  That's 
what  I'm  hired  for.  The  first  thing  we  want  is  the  papers, 
and  the  'Squire  can  get  them  out  right  away,  and  we'll 
go  up  there  in  the  name  of  the  law.  If  you  fellers  want 
to  come  along  we  '11  swear  ye  in.  You,  Doc,  I  want,  'cause 
somebody's  got  to  help  the  kid  take  care  of  the  girl  and 
the  baby,  anyway.  When  I  was  in  the  war  we  always 
looked  out  for  the  wimmen  and  children,  and  we'll  look 
out  for  'em  proper  this  time." 

"Don't  stop  to  parley  too  long  with  the  brute,  Perry," 
said  Bascom.  "He  ain't  worth  bandying  language  with." 

"We  won't  talk  any  longer  than's  necessary,  Doc,  but 
we  don't  want  to>  have  to  kill  the  pup  till  we  have  to, 
even  if  we  think  the  community  would  be  able  to  part 
with  him  without  cavin'  in  its  moral  standin'." 

"All  right,  Perry,  you  talk  to  him,  and  while  you're 
talkin'  I'll  draw  a  bead  on  him  to  prepare  for  emergen- 
cies. Then  we'll  know  there  won't  be  any  bloodshed 
that'll  worry  anybody.  Don't  you  worry  a  second,  old 
man,  and  you  won't  have  to  look  around  to  see  if  I'm 

[195] 


here.  When  it  comes  to  fightin'  fer  the  women  and  chil- 
dren the  Johnnie  will  be  in  hailing  distance  of  the  Yank 
all  the  time." 

When  the  'Squire  made  out  the  proper  papers  the  mar- 
shal went  up  to  the  house  backed  by  a  small  army.  Right 
by  the  side  of  the  marshal  was  Clarke  and  the  aggrieved 
husband,  who  refused  to  stay  in  the  background. 

''If  anybody's  to  get  hurt  in  this  thing  I'm  the  feller 
that  the  hurtin'  belongs  to  by  right,"  he  said. 

"There  isn't  anybody  going  to  get  hurt,"  said  Bascom, 
reassuringly.  "The  best  way  to  prevent  it  is  to  prevent 
it.  And  I  don't  believe  Moore  will  care  about  taking  a 
look  at  the  other  side  of  the  river  just  this  minute,  and 
he's  the  only  one  in  danger  of  getting  hurt,  or  Bob  Crock- 
ett didn't  teach  me  to  shoot." 

"What's  all  this  row  about?"  demanded  Moore,  ap- 
pearing in  answer  to  the  marshal 's  summons. 

"I  have  a  writ  here  requiring  you  to  deliver  over  to 
me  this  instant  this  boy's  wife  and  baby,"  said  Perry. 

"You  go  to  hell!"  answered  the  obstinate  brute. 

"I  ain't  got  time  to  talk,  Dick,  and  this  writ  says 
'forthwith.'  That  means  that  the  state  of  Indiana  wants 
it  done  now,  so  you'd  better  not  stand  on  the  order  of 
your  goin',  but  produce  the  folks  called  for  right  now." 

"You'll  not  get  'em,  and  you'll  get  off  my  premises. 
I'll  shoot  the  first  man  who  crosses  this  threshold." 

"No  you  won't,  Dick,"  chimed  in  Clarke.  "I've  got 
you  covered  now  as  deputy  marshal,  and  the  first  false 
move  you  make  I'll  pull  the  trigger.  Go  ahead,  Perry!" 

"Drop  that  gun  and  throw  up  your  hands!"  said  the 
marshal. 

For  just  an  instant  Moore  looked  at  the  situation  and 
then  surrendered.  The  marshal  put  the  irons  on  him 
and  Clarke,  followed  by  the  husband,  pushed  up  the 
stairs.  The  old  woman  was  on  guard  there,  brandishing 
a  revolver  and  hurling  vile  language  at  the  invaders. 
Before  she  had  a  chance  to  use  the  weapon  she  was  dis- 
armed and  turned  over  to  the  marshal,  who  had  by  this 
time  reached  the  upper  landing.  She  bit,  kicked  and 

[196] 


scratched  with  all  the  abandon  of  a  woman  of  her  kind, 
but  was  finally  subdued.  On  her  refusal  to  give  up  the 
key  to  the  room  in  which  the  wife  was  locked,  Clarke, 
with  a  few  well-directed  applications  of  his  boot,  kicked 
it  in.  He  and  the  husband  then  carried  the  girl  and  her 
baby  out  past  tke  sullen,  defeated  abductors,  whence  they 
were  taken  to  their  home.  In  the  happiness  of  their  re- 
union they  begged  the  officer  to  release  the  couple  and 
not  prosecute  them  further.  Perry,  therefore,  after  pos- 
sessing himself  of  the  revolvers,  took  off  the  handcuffs. 

"This  isn't  the  end  of  this,"  declared  Moore,  as  he 
rubbed  his  wrists  where  the  irons  had  chafed  him. 

"No,"  said  Doctor  Parker,  sententiously,  "it's  not  the 
end.  We  kave  the  goods  on  you,  now,  and  unless  you 
and  that  woman  get  out  of  this  town  your  case  will  go  to 
the  next  grand  jury  for  abduction,  and  we'll  see  that 
you  both  spend  a  fair  share  of  your  life  where  the  dogs 
won't  bite  you.  So,  make  up  your  minds  to  get  out. 
You'll  be  watched  night  and  day  from  this  time  on  till 
you  go,  and  the  first  false  move  will  cost  you  dearly.  I'm 
speaking  by  the  card,  Moore,  and  you'd  better  take  my 
advice  and  leave  right  soon.  It'll  be  healthier  for  you 
somewhere  else." 

The  philosophers'  club  returned  to  the  postoffice,  minus 
Rowdyhouse,  who  had  the  matter  of  some  torn  clothes 
and  scratches  to  attend  to. 

"Let's  see,  where  did  we  leave  off,"  said  Clarke.  "We 
were  paying  tribute  to  wives,  weren't  we?" 

"Some  wives,"  said  Sam  Sering. 

"Most  wives,"  interposed  Dan  White. 

"Oh,  don't  let's  count  that  Moore  woman  at  all,"  said 
the  postmaster.  "She's  an  exception  and  just  what  you'd 
expect  to  find  with  such  a  man  as  Moore." 

"But  his  first  wife  was  all  right,  wasn't  she?"  said 
Teeguarden. 

"Yes,  and  Bill  may  have  been  all  right  when  he  mar- 
ried her,  so  far  as  she  could  see.  He  was  putting  his  best 
front  to  her,  and  it  might  have  been  a  decent  looking  out- 
side. I  guess  most  of  the  women  find  the  husbands  aren't 

[1*7] 


the  fellows  they  thought  they  married.  Take  Mrs.  Clarke, 
for  instance:  she  didn't  realize  how  much  of  'worse' 
it  might  be  when  she  took  me  for  better  or  for  worse, 
but  she's  been  too  proud  to  admit  to  anybody  but  herself 
that  she'd  made  a  mistake.  So  she  tolerates  me  around." 

"She's  been  the  makin'  of  you,  Doc,"  said  Bob  Clark. 
"Lots  of  us  didn't  know  but  she  was  makin'  a  mistake 
when  she  hitched  up  with  you,  much  as  we  liked  you." 

"Say,  it  did  take  some  nerve  for  a  woman  to  consent 
to  share  my  five  dollars  a  week  and  no  prospects,  didn't 
it?  But  I  haven't  heard  her  complain  about  it  yet,  and  I 
sure  have  been  happy.  It  was  worth  all  I  went  through 
to  get  her.  I've  noticed  that  God  usually  makes  up  to 
you  for  the  sufferin'  the  devil  puts  you  to,  and  his 
Satanic  Majesty  certainly  did  have  me  on  the  hip  for  a 
time,  if  he  was  responsible  for  the  things  that  came  my 
way." 

"Don't  forget,"  said  Teeguarden,  "that  your  mother 
was  probably  watching  you  all  the  time." 

"Yes,  I  know  what  you  believe,  Freeman,"  said  Bas- 
com.  "And  if  she  were  watching  me  she  must  have  been 
with  me  when  I  stood  by  her  grave  the  other  day  down 
in  Arkansas,  with  my  wife  and  my  baby.  I  knelt  down 
there  and  cried  to  her.  I  couldn't  help  it.  I'd  done  it  if 
the  whole  world  was  there.  She  had  a  hard,  hard  path- 
way in  life  and  I  wasn't  old  enough  to  realize  it  until  she 
was  dead  and  it  was  too  late.  I  wanted  her  to  see  my 
wife  and  my  baby  boy." 

"She's  probably  been  granted  that  privilege  long  be- 
fore this,"  said  Teeguarden,  firm  in  his  spiritualistic  be- 
lief. 

"Whether  she  has  or  not  I  don't  know,  but  I'm  trying 
to  be  as  good  to  my  wife  as  my  father  was  to  his.  I  can 
just  begin  to  understand  now  what  a  man  and  woman 
they  were.  It  doesn't  do  any  good  to  speculate  on  what 
might  have  been.  But  I  would  have  liked  to  see  them  live 
to  a  ripe  old  age  like  Grandfather  and  Grandmother." 

"If  they  had  you  wouldn't  be  here,"  said  Bob  Clark. 

[198] 


"God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way  His  wonders  to  per- 
form," concluded  Bascom. 

Captain  Waugh  came  through  the  door  just  at  this  time, 
and  after  acknowledging  the  greetings,  turned  to  Clarke. 

"Well,  son,"  he  asked,  "Did  you  get  your  money's 
worth  on  the  trip?" 

"Considering  that  it  didn't  cost  me  much  it  wouldn't 
take  much  to  reimburse  me  so  far  as  that  is  concerned," 
responded  the  postmaster.  "But  I  got  what  money  won't 
buy,  a  loving  greeting  from  my  people.  You  can't  buy 
folks,  Captain,  and  to  put  my  arms  around  my  sisters 
and  look  into  their  faces  after  all  these  years  was  worth 
walking  all  the  way.  Thanks  to  the  "editorial  courte- 
sies" extended  by  the  railroad  companies  I  didn't  have 
to  walk,  however,  and  the  trip  did  me  a  world  of  good." 

"You  didn't  want  to  stay,  eh?" 

' '  No !  From  my  manner  of  coming  up  here  it  looked  as 
if  the  Lord  didn't  intend  me  to  cast  my  lot  down  there, 
and  I  think  I'll  follow  the  lead  given  me.  You'll  have  to 
put  up  with  me  awhile  longer,  I  guess." 

"How'd  you  manage  to  reconcile  them  to  your  northern 
ideas?" 

"I  didn't  try  to  reconcile  them  in  the  way  you  mean. 
They  know  I  love  the  south  and  its  people — that  it's  my 
homeland  and  my  people.  So  1  talked  to  them  as  brother 
to  brother  in  reason,  and  they  listened,  better  probably 
than  they  would  have  listened  to  a  Northerner.  But  they 
have  their  problems,  and  it  wrung  my  heart  to  realize 
what  they  have  gone  through.  It  was  a  wicked,  un- 
necessary war,  Captain,  and  the  innocent  ones  carried 
most  of  its  burdens.  They  haven't  recovered  from  the 
shock  or  the  humiliation  of  defeat,  yet,  and  they  won't 
for  a  long  time  to  come.  Many  mistakes  were  made  in 
the  reconstruction  program.  Let  us  admit,  if  need  be, 
that  the  mistakes  were  due  to  the  fact  that  some  of  their 
leaders  were  bull-headed.  The  application  of  the  iron 
hand  did  not  tend  to  break  their  spirit,  but  to  arouse 
sullen  defiance.  The  choice  of  men  sent  down  there,  "car- 
pet-baggers," they  call  them,  was  not  always  the  wisest, 

[199] 


and  the  result  was  just  what  could  be  imagined.  I  firmly 
believe  that  if  Lincoln  had  been  permitted  to  live  he  would 
have  gone  at  it  differently.  He  would  have  gone  in  the 
spirit  of  love  and  helpfulness,  and  with  prayers  to  God 
to  guide  his  hands.  Riding  rough-shod  over  a  people  may 
conquer  them  physically,  but  it  breeds  hate.  Then,  the 
putting  of  the  responsibility  of  government  in  the  hands 
of  the  niggers,  who  are  not  by  nature,  training  or  heri- 
tage equipped  for  such  a  job,  hasn't  helped  to  untangle 
the  mess.  I'm  glad  Grant  has  been  in  the  presidential 
chair.  He  has  treated  them  with  respect,  as  our  coun- 
trymen,— mistaken,  if  that  be  the  word  to  use,  but  enti- 
tled to  treatment  as  Americans.  Of  course  they  can't 
see  his  great  personality  now,  because  of  the  blood  of 
their  wounds  which  fills  their  eyes.  But  he  understands 
and  measures  the  situation  with  his  broad  mind  better 
than  any  other  one  at  Washington.  It  will  be  a  long 
time,  many  years  probably,  before  the  south  can  look  at 
the  north  with  any  degree  of  tolerance,  but  the  victors 
can  afford  to  be  magnanimous  and  patient." 

"Well,  they  have  my  sympathy,"  remarked  Hayden, 
one  of  the  proprietors  of  the  drug  store,  who  had  been 
listening  to  the  conversation. 

"They've  got  to  have  something  more  than  sympathy," 
responded  Clarke.  "I  remember  wken  we  refugee  'John- 
nies' were  coming  north,  poverty  stricken  and  miserable. 
We  had  to  wait  in  Mattoon,  Illinois,  for  the  train  to  be 
made  up  for  us  to  come  to  Indianapolis.  The  people  gath- 
ered around  and  expressed  sympathy  for  our  forlorn  ap- 
pearance. Finally,  one  spoke  up:  'I've  heard  you  peo- 
ple tell  how  much  you  sympathize  with  these  folks.  I 
sympathize  with  them  to  the  extent  of  giving  this  much 
toward  getting  them  something  to  eat.  They're  hungry.' 
And  he  shoved  over  a  fifty-cent  shinplaster.  Others  fol- 
lowed his  example  and  we  were  fed.  That 's  genuine  sym- 
pathy. The  south  is  impoverished.  It  hadn't  a  dollar  in 
capital  on  which  to  start,  when  the  war  was  ended,  and 
desolation  was  all  around  them.  When  the  north  gets  to 
taking  its  money  down  there  and  helping  to  rejuvenate 

[200] 


the  country  it  will  be  practical  sympathy.  And  besides 
it  will  be  the  best  paying  proposition  from  a  financial 
standpoint  that  could  be  made.  The  south  is  wealthy  in 
natural  resources,  but  it  needs  help.  It  is  just  .scratching 
the  ground  and  practicing  enforced  economy  until  it  gets 
on  its  feet  again.  It  can't  be  reconstructed  into  the  part 
it  ought  to  play  in  the  economy  of  the  nation  in  a  day 
or  a  year  or  a  decade.  The  people  have  got  to  learn  new 
habits  of  life,  and  old  prejudices  will  have  to  give  way. 
My  heart  is  with  them  and  my  love  goes  out  to  them  in 
their  struggle." 


[201] 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"Two  things  in  Arkansaw  have  proved  valuable  les- 
sons to  me,  the  jay-bird  mill  and  the  razor-back  hog.  In 
fact  I  can  lay  my  ambition  to  observations  of  the  one 
and  my  resourcefulness  to  a  contemplation  of  the  other." 

Thus  spoke  the  postmaster. 

"What's  a  jay-bird  mill?"  came  in  a  chorus  from  his 
fellow  members  of  the  town  philosopher  club. 

"A  jay-bird  mill!  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that 
you  fellows  have  lived  all  these  years  and  not  discovered 
what  a  jay-bird  mill  is!  There's  a  lot  of  men  in  this 
town  running  jay-bird  mills  right  now.  In  fact,  I'm 
somewhat  afraid  I'm  running  one  to  some  extent  myself, 
but  the  razor-back  hog  is  going  to  pull  me  out  of  it." 

"Great  Scott!  Don't  talk  in  riddles,"  said  Dan  White. 
"I'll  bite!  Tell  us  about  this  jay-bird  mill." 

' '  While  I  was  in  Arkansaw  during  the  war,  rations  were 
mighty  scarce,  and  I  used  to  have  to  go  to  mill  seven 
miles  away  once  a  week  with  a  bag  of  corn  to  be  ground. 
The  mill  was  a  little  one  for  a  cent,  with  a  capacity  of 
only  a  few  bushels  a  day.  The  hopper  and  stone  were  in 
the  upper  part  of  a  cotton  gin,  and  the  power  was  fur- 
nished by  four  mules  on  the  ground  floor,  and  they  had 
to  be  argued  with  all  the  time  to  get  any  speed  out  of 
them  at  all.  When  running  full  capacity  the  stream  of 
meal  would  only  be  about  as  big  as  a  lead  pencil.  Well, 
one  day,  after  filling  the  hopper  the  miller  went  down 
stairs  to  chase  the  mules  around,  at  the  same  time  keep- 
ing his  eye  on  the  spout  leading  into  the  bag.  Much  to 
his  surprise,  though  he  heard  the  hum  of  the  burrs,  there 
wasn't  any  resulting  golden  meal.  Wondering  at  this 
he  investigated  and  found  that  an  enterprising  jay-bird, 
in  quest  of  food  for  the  family  he  had  taken  upon  him- 
self to  provide  for,  had  stationed  himself  where  the  corn 

[202] 


bumped  down  the  spout  from  the  hopper,  had  wig-wagged 
home  for  Mrs.  Jay  and  there  they  were  catching  the 
kernals  on  the  fly  as  fast  as  they  came  along.  A  dinky 
mill  that  a  jaybird  could  starve  wouldn't  go  very  far  to- 
ward making  a  man  a  living,  would  it?" 

"Well,  let's  have  the  answer,"  persisted  White. 

"The  answer  is  that  I  want  a  bigger  mill." 

"You're  doin'  well  enough  now,  ain't  ye?"  said  Tee- 
guarden. 

"I'm  doin'  the  capacity  of  the  mill,  that's  all,  and  the 
mill  isn't  big  enough." 

"Do  you  mean  the  town's  too  small  for  you?"  queried 
Bill  Clark,  who  happened  to  be  Clarke's  brother-in-law. 

"No,  sir,  the  town's  all  right,  and  the  people  are  all 
right,  but  the  territory's  too  small." 

"What  you  goin'  to  do,  put  an  addition  to  the  town?" 
said  Bob  Clark. 

"No,  I'm  going  to  follow  the  example  of  that  greatly 
abused,  but  industrious  animal,  the  razor-back  hog  of 
Arkansaw,  and  no  history  of  life  in  that  state  before  the 
war  would  be  complete  without  at  least  a  passing  reference 
to  him.  Self-reliant,  wise  beyond  his  day  and  genera- 
tion, free  from  any  kind  of  restraint,  he  foraged  for  his 
own  provender  and  seldom  went  hungry.  Down  on  the 
river  bottom  his  long  snout,  backed  by  a  strength  and  in- 
telligence his  more  pampered  brethern  never  possessed, 
would  search  out  and  find  the  daintiest  roots  and  herbs 
upon  which  to  feast.  Used  to  taking  care  of  himself  he 
was  quick  to  scent  danger,  would  follow  his  first  instinct 
and  run  to  escape  trouble,  but  would  fight  and  fight  hard 
if  cornered.  In  more  than  one  contest  with  the  hound 
dogs  the  latter  were  taught  to  have  a  wholesome  respect 
for  the  dignity  and  rights  of  the  former. 

"Each  owner  had  a  mark  which  was  registered  at  the 
county  seat,  and  severe  punishment  was  in  store  for  any- 
one who  appropriated  to  his  own  use  one  of  these  roving 
swine  that  belonged  to  another.  In  the  fall  the  owners 
were  supposed  to  kill  in  proportion  to  their  original 
droves,  as  the  increase  was  rarely  caught  and  branded. 

[203] 


Of  course  some  killed  over  and  some  under  their  propor- 
tionate share,  but  there  were  plenty  of  hogs  for  all,  and 
it  made  no  difference.  Later  when  the  war  came  with  its 
privations  these  hogs  were  much  sought,  for  food  was 
scarce. 

"Some  of  the  old  darkies  were  privileged  to  raise  some 
hogs  and  chickens  of  their  own,  and  the  money  from  them 
they  were  allowed  to  keep.  Invariably  they  brought 
their  products  to  'Marse  Jeems,'  as  they  called  Colonel 
Clarke,  my  father.  Sometimes  they  'lifted'  a  shoat  from 
their  master's  drove,  and  cooked  it  after  night.  When 
the  war  was  on  and  the  strings  tightened  about  the  slaves, 
so  that  their  privileges  were  practically  all  taken  away, 
including  the  right  of  ownership  in  their  own  hogs,  they 
were  compelled  to  dispose  of  even  their  own  product  un- 
der cover. 

"'Squire  "Walker's  'Uncle  Tom,'  one  night,  aroused 
father  from  his  sleep  about  midnight: 

"  'Marse  Jeems,'  he  said,  'Get  up.  I  wants  to  see  you- 
all.' 

"He  had  a  nice  fat  shoat  in  his  possession,  which  had 
been  killed  and  dressed.  , 

"  'Marse  Jeems,'  he  said,  'I  done  killed  one  o'  you-all 
shoats  down  on  the  bottom.  Ah  knowed  you-all  didn't 
had  time  to  chase  youah  hawgs,  an'  I  'lowed  I'd  git  him 
foh  yuh.  Ah  know  you-all  mahk,  kase  hits  a  crop  off 'en 
one  ear  an'  a  swallow  fork  in  de  lef.' 

"  'Marse  Jeems'  gave  Uncle  Tom  a  plug  of  tobacco  and 
twenty  dollars  in  Confederate  money  for  butchering  the 
pig,  but  it  was  noted  afterwards  that  the  old  darkey  had 
been  careful  to  leave  the  ears  with  the  trimmings,  so  that 
the  Colonel  was  always  somewhat  in  doubt  as  to  having 
his  own  pig. 

"We  were  privileged  to  have  one  meal  off  that  shoat, 
and  one  only.  A  party  of  Confederate  soldiers,  retreat- 
ing through  the  town  the  next  day,  conscripted  the  re- 
mainder, and  the  family  returned  to  short  rations., 

"Just  before  the  blockade  of  the  White  Eiver,  an  up- 
bound  packet  fleeing  the  Yankee  gunboats,  to  lighten 

[204] 


itself  dumped  three  hundred  barrels  of  molasses  on  the 
Mount  Adams  landing.  It  laid  there  for  months  un- 
claimed until  quite  a  number  of  the  barrels  were  appro- 
priated to  the  use  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  village.  The 
remainder  were  scrutinized  by  the  hogs,  and  as  the 
weather  came  to  their  assistance,  opening  a  seam  here 
and  there,  the  wary  animals  used  their  snouts  and  feet 
to  advantage  until  they  had  the  barrels  open  and  the 
liquid  sweetness  pouring  in  a  flood  upon  the  ground. 
Then  high  carnival  reigned.  They  would  fill  themselves 
with  the  molasses,  go  down  to  the  river  and  take  in 
copious  drafts  of  water,  then  return  for  more  molasses, 
repeating  the  operation  until  they  had  reached  the  utmost 
limits  of  their  capacity.  Soon  not  a  vestige  remained  of 
the  jettisoned  cargo,  and  the  hogs  returned  to  their  usual 
mode  of  getting  a  living. 

"The  lineal  descendants  of  these  hogs  still  remain  in 
Arkansas,  but  their  environment  has  been  changed.  They 
are  long-nosed  and  gaunt,  but  the  price  of  pork  has  gone 
up  and  up  until  'pigs  is  pigs.'  They  receive  care  and 
attention  their  forefathers  never  dreamed  of.  As  a  re- 
sult they  are  not  quite  as  resourceful,  and  depend  more 
on  their  human  owners  for  the  necessary  sustenance.  The 
owners,  in  turn,  recognizing  their  commercial  value,  are 
more  anxious  to  have  them  fat  and  in  good  condition 
when  butchering  time  comes.  The  stories  of  the  old  life 
before  the  war,  handed  down  from  father  to  son  in  hog- 
dom,  must  have  thrilled  the  hearts  of  the  piglets  and 
made  them  yearn  for  the  'good  old  days.'  ' 

"Well,"  persisted  Bill  Clark,  "as  aforesaid,  what's  the 
answer  ? ' ' 

"I've  been  doing  some  collecting  for  a  farm  machinery 
company  down  in  Ohio,  and  they  want  me  to  go  with  them 
regularly.  Of  course  I  might  put  it  the  other  way  around, 
and  say  that  I  hired  myself  out  to  them  in  about  the  same 
way  I  'accepted'  a  position  in  John  Ghent's  drug  store, 
and  you  all  know  how  I  did  that.  And  it's  going  to  be 
a  case  of  'root  hog,  or  die!'  I've  got  to  the  end  of  the 
string  in  the  way  of  possible  income  from  my  business 

[205] 


here  in8  Coif  ax,  and  I've  got  to  widen  out  or  be  content 
to  make  a  bare  living." 

"S'posin'  you  fail?"  said  Teeguarden. 

"I'll  begin  over  again.  A  man  that  can't  be  down  and 
out  and  bob  up  smiling  for  a  new  start  isn't  worth  much." 

' '  What 's  all  this  g-g-got  to  do  with  the  r-r-r-razor-back 
h-h-h-hog?"  suggested  Ves  Jenkins. 

"Why,  they  trapse  around  the  whole  darn  country  to 
make  their  living,  but  the  pork  barrel  is  in  the  home 
town.  Do^you  get  me?" 

"We'll  clo  our  level  best  to  get  whatever  you've  got 
Bring  lots  of  it  for  we've  been  feedin'  you  for  a  long 
time,"  said  Hayden. 
t" Who's  going  to  run  the  Chronicle?" 

"Who's  goin'  to  be  postmaster?" 

The  questions  were  shot  at  him  from  all  sides,  but 
Clarke  told  them  Gil  Hamilton  would  be  over  to  take  care 
of  the  Chronicle  and  the  United  States  government  would 
probably  be  able  to  find  a  successor  without  knocking  at 
many  doors. 

Bascom  had  been  the  local  representative  of  a  collec- 
tion agency.  He  had  demonstrated  his  ability  in  the  di- 
rection of  teasing  the  reluctant  dollars  from  the  pockets  of 
the  slow-payers  to  such  an  extent  that  he  had  attracted 
the  notice  of  one  of  the  important  concerns  dealing  in 
threshing  machinery.  A  particularly  hard  collection,  in 
which  the  machinery  on  which  the  company  had  a  lien 
had  been  moved  to  another  state,  was  made  by  him.  He 
proved  to  himself  also  that  he  could  handle  business,  and 
this  gave  him  confidence  to  believe  that  he  could  safely 
enlarge  his  field  of  labor.  To  do  it,  however,  he  had  to 
burn  a  good  many  bridges  behind  him,  but  he  did  it  with 
faith  that  wherever  the  road  led  he  would  find  success 
at  the  end. 

In  the  long  consultation  with  his  wife,  before  the  move 
was  made,  she  proved  herself  a  helpmate  indeed.  She 
put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  looked  into  his  face  with  a 
touch  of  the  old  sauciness,  and  said: 

"We'll  back  you,  honey,  the  babies  and  I,  and  I  know 

[206] 


you'll  win  out.  But  don't  forget  when  you  burn  your 
bridges  that  we've  got  to  be  on  the  same  side  of  the 
stream  with  you  when  the  bridge  goes  down." 

"That's  the  only  thing  that's  made  me  hesitate  at  all, 
Ma.  But  if  you  say  '  Go ! '  I  '11  take  the  bit  in  my  teeth  and 
never  even  hesitate,  not  if  the  jockey  falls  off  or  the  sulky 
smashes,  till  I'm  under  the  wire.  If  some  of  these  cusses 
had  wives  like  mine  they  wouldn't  be  running  jay-bird 
mills  all  their  lives." 

"Jay-bird  mills!    What  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  I  forgot!  You  belong  to  the  great  army  of  un- 
initiates,  too,  don't  you?  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  a  jay- 
bird mill  is." 

Then  he  proceeded  to  explain  and  draw  his  conclusions. 

"Well  I  don't  care.  Even  if  the  miller's  sack  went 
empty  the  Jays  had  one  good  meal,  didn't  they?"  was 
the  wife's  comment.  , 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that?"  said  Bascom. 

Just  then  Bill  Clark  and  his  wife  came  in.  The  news 
of  the  contemplated  move  had  been  promptly  conveyed 
home  and  Elizabeth  Watkins  Clark  insisted  on  going  to 
see  what  Belle  thought  of  it.  If  anybody  thought  that 
the  Watkins  family  had  not  been  reconciled  to  the  fellow 
that  grabbed  one  of  the  principal  members  of  the  house- 
hold and  carried  her  off  to  his  own  cave,  the  greeting 
given  by  "Lib"  to  her  brother-in-law  would  have  set  his 
mind  at  rest. 

"I'm  glad  Belle  had  the  spunk  to  stick  to  you,  brother. 
She  showed  rare  judgment  on  two  special  occasions — 
when  she  came  into  the  Watkins  family  and  when  she 
went  into  the  Clarke  family.  I  glory  in  your  grit  and 
I'm  proud  to  own  you  for  kinfolk.  You  ain't  afraid  to 
let  go  your  moorings  because  some  ship  has  been  wrecked 
on  the  high  seas.  You've  been  a  good  brother  to  us  all 
and  like  the  good  generous  boy  you  are  you  have  forgiven 
the  things  said  and  done  in  the  past.  I  have  tried  to 
make  up  to  you  for  the  rough  road  you  had  to  travel  at 
the  outset  and  try  to  show  you  that  I  believe  in  you.  I 

[207] 


think  I  can  see  what  this  means.  Larger  and  still  larger 
things  will  be  trusted  to  you  until  you  reach  your  right- 
ful position.  I'm  glad  sister  Belle  is  your  wife." 

"So  am  I,  Lib.  Because  if  it  were  some  women  I  might 
not  have  the  courage  to  strike  out." 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  interposed  Belle.  "I  can't  see  how  any 
credit  is  due  me  for  backing  up  my  husband  in  trying  to 
better  himself.  If  a  wife  won't  uphold  the  hands  of  her 
husband  when  he  is  fighting  for  a  place  in  the  world  she 
doesn't  deserve  to  have  a  husband.  If  he  does  me  the 
honor  to  consult  with  me  as  a  partner  in  the  things  that 
go  to  make  up  a  man's  work,  the  least  I  can  do  is  to 
measure  up  my  life  beside  him  and,  so  far  as  I  can,  be 
what  God  intended  a  wife  to  be,  a  helpmeet." 

"Yes,"  said  Bill,  "we  were  discussing  the  subject  of 
wives  this  afternoon  and  the  jury  was  unanimous." 

' '  Unanimous  as  to  what  ? ' '  demanded  Mrs.  ' '  Bill. ' ' 

"The  question's  privileged,  Bill.  You  don't  have  to  an- 
swer," said  Bascom. 

"You  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Bill,  "he  doesn't  need  to  an- 
swer. I've  heard  men  talk  about  their  wives  in  public 
myself.  You'd  think  they'd  all  married  saintesses,  and 
then  if  you'd  follow  them  home  you'd  find  'em  wonder- 
ing what  had  become  of  all  the  money  they  left  with  'em, 
doled  out  like  they  was  givin'  to  the  preacher.  Partner- 
ship !  Huh !  Sometimes  it 's  more  like  a  man  and  a  hired 
girl,  only  the  wife  doesn't  get  regular  wages  like  the  girl 
would." 

"It  isn't  very  often  a  'silent  partnership,'  anyway,  is 
it  'Lib'?"  queried  Bascom. 

"No,  and  it  shouldn't  be.  And  if  the  men  would 
listen  a  little  more  to  what  their  wives  say,  and  consult 
with  them  on  their  plans  and  ambitions,  there  wouldn't 
be  so  many  men  carping  about  their  wives'  extravagance, 
either." 

"You  and  Belle  ought  to  start  a  Society  for  the  Bet- 
terment of  the  Treatment  of  Wives  by  their  Husbands," 
said  Bill. 

[208] 


"'Twouldn't  be  any  use,"  said  Belle.  "You  couldn't 
get  a  woman  to  acknowledge,  outside  the  divorce  court, 
that  her  husband  wasn't  a  perfect  angel.  And  the  meet- 
ing would  resolve  itself  into  a  Society  for  the  Mutual  Ad- 
miration of  Our  Husbands.  No,  we'll  have  to  work  out 
the  problem,  each  in  our  own  home  and  in  our  own  way. ' ' 


CONCLUSION. 

"Why  go  further?  Is  not  the  picture  sufficient?  The 
development  of  the  fundamentals  of  character  have  been 
shown.  The  filing,  furbishing,  smoothing  and  trimming 
which  came  to  Clarke  as  a  machinery  salesman  and  after- 
wards as  publisher  of  The  American  Thresherman  is  a 
story  in  itself.  In  the  perspective  he  now  knows  that  the 
privations  and  struggles  of  boyhood  and  young  manhood, 
bitter  at  the  time,  were  the  very  things  that  conspired  to 
develop  strength,  character  and  determination.  He  was 
undaunted  by  failure  and  unchanged  in  nature  by  suc- 
cess. Positive  in  his  conviction  he  was  just  as  positive  in 
acknowledging  an  error.  Having  opinions,  he  was  not 
opinionated.  Firm  in  his  beliefs,  he  was  tolerant.  From 
abuse  he  learned  patience  and  endurance;  by  ridicule  he 
was  taught  to  correct  his  mistakes;  by  failure  he  found 
the  pathway  to  success;  knowing  every  step  of  the  way 
from  abject  poverty  to  competency,  his  desire  for  com- 
panionship brought  him  friends  all  along  the  path.  Thus 
he  grew  in  strength  and  self-reliance  and  upon  his  shoul- 
ders leaned  more  than  one  he  had  found  fainting  and 
weary  by  the  roadside. 

From  a  busy  and  eventful  life  he  gathered  a  store  of 
information,  to  which  he  applied  his  own  peculiar  pro- 
cesses of  reasoning  and  developed  his  own  philosophy. 
For  instance,  at  divers  times  he  has  given  utterance  to  the 
following  observations: 

Don't  expect  too  much  before  you  deserve  it.  There's  only  one 
pearl  in  a  car-load  of  mussel  shells. 

I  have  read  in  the  Good  Book,  "Honor  thy  father,"  but  I  never 
found  the  page  where  it  called  him  "My  old  man." 

The  boy  who  mows  the  lawn  without  being  told,  and  who  helps 
mother  wash  the  dishes  when  she's  tired,  becomes  the  man  the  place 
seeks  without  the  necessity  of  hiring  a  brass  band. 

[210] 


Most  of  the  skyscrapers  in  the  city  have  farmer  boys  for  tenants. 

When  you  do  a  good  turn  forget  it,  and  some  time  way  ahead, 
when  you  need  it  most  and  expect  it  least,  your  reward  will  be  a  hun- 
dredfold. 

I  believe  in  God's  promises  literally.  I've  put  them  to  the  test 
a  thousand  times  and  won  the  capital  prize  at  every  drawing. 

Be  truthful,  not  diplomatic.  Diplomacy  is  a  way  nations  have  of 
lying  to  each  other. 

None  of  us  believe  in  fortune  telling,  but  the  gypsies  still  get 
silver  in  their  palms. 

When  a  man  does  you  a  good  turn  pray  for  him,  and  also  for  sev- 
eral others  just  like  him. 

Ff  you  are  caught  in  the  wrong,  take  your  medicine  like  a  man 
instead  of  trying  to  blame  it  on  others.  I  don't  believe  in  even 
taking  a  licking  by  proxy. 

If  the  north  and  south  had  only  talked  it  over,  as  brother  to 
brother,  then  held  a  few  camp  meetings  and  told  the  Lord  about  it, 
maybe  they  wouldn't  have  been  so  far  apart.  Look  what  a  saving 
it  would  have  been  in  monuments  alone. 

The  fleet  of  boats  I  found  on  the  lower  Mississippi  dredging  for 
musselshells  to  sell  to  the  Yankee  button-makers,  was  worth  more  to 
both  sides  than  a  fleet  of  gunboats  to  either. 

You  don't  get  much  advertisement  out  of  your  name  on  a  grave- 
yard rock. 

The  best  liniment  for  stiff  joints  is  kneeling  down  at  night  by 
yourself  and  whispering  your  thanks  to  Him  who  keeps  the  closest 
tabs  on  the  orphan  boy. 

"If  I  were  a  boy  again,  just  for  tonight"  and  my  neighbor  was 
mean  enough  to  guard  his  melon-patch  with  a  gun,  I  think  I'd  ex- 
postulate with  him. 

There  may  be  those  who  can  get  closer  to  God  than  a  good  Chris- 
tian mother  standin'  up  in  meetin'  proclaiming  her  articles  of  faith, 
but  I  doubt  it. 

As  you  go  along  life's  pathway,  plant  a  little  flower  here  and 
there,  in  good  deeds,  and  the  fragrance  wafted  your  way  in  the 
sundown  of  life  will  be  the  sweetest  recollection  of  all. 

If  you  can't  pray  yourself,  help  pay  those  who  make  it  their 
business. 

A  man  who  will  steal  a  bean  from  a  two-cent  jack-pot  will  stack 
the  cards  in  a  big  game. 

You'll  find  human  nature  averaging  about  the  same  the  world 
over.  The  politicians  who  decry  the  "big  interests"  weren't  in 
when  the  melon  was  cut.  That's  all. 

[211] 


It  isn't  always  the  glibbest  tongue  that  means  the  most.  I  once 
committed  sixty-five  verses  from  the  New  Testament  before  break- 
fast one  Sunday,  and  drew  a  prize  for  it;  and  then  got  scolded  by 
Aunt  Sally  Kendall  for  fishing  that  very  afternoon. 

The  only  thing  the  two  could  agree  on  during  the  war  was  that 
"graybaeks"  were  worse  than  "chiggers. " 

I  never  thought  the  Yankees  were  stingier  than  our  folks  until  I 
tried  to  eat  their  hardtack  and  found  how  skimp  they  were  with 
shortening. 

A  cross-eyed  man  and  a  "pepper-box"  revolver  are  alike  in  one 
thing:  Neither  hits  where  it's  looking. 

I  believe  more  in  the  Apostles'  Creed  than  I  do  in  living  on  corn 
bread. 

I  don't  like  nigger  dogs,  even  in  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin. 

I  don't  want  to  stir  up  the  past,  but  if  I  knew  that  Tank  who 
bent  my  first  single-barrel  shotgun  around  a  tree  in  '63  I'd  make 
him  read  this  book. 

Reviewing  his  busy  life  with  a  friend,  one  day,  he  said : 
"Without  the  experiences  of  my  early  life  I  could  not 
have  succeeded  in  some  of  the  fields  in  which  I  have  la- 
bored. I  was  broken  loose  and  cast  adrift,  and  I  had  to 
take  the  initiative.  Go  to  the  village  and  see  the  crowds 
of  young  men  standing  around  with  their  hands  in  their 
pockets  watching  the  trains  go  by,  and  you  will  find  an 
idle  squad  that  can  be  duplicated  in  every  village  the 
country  over.  They  would  welcome  an  opportunity  of 
doing  something  for  themselves,  yet  don't  know  how  or 
haven 't  the  ambition  to  create  opportunities.  They  stand 
there  day  after  day  wishing  that  fortune  would  favor  them 
with  an  open  avenue  for  them  to  become  useful  men.  In 
the  war  of  '61  to  '65  instance  after  instance  can  be  re- 
called where  boys  who  were  considered  the  village  loaf- 
ers, when  given  an  opportunity  to  fight  for  their  country, 
became  the  very  pick  of  their  regiments  and  the  bravest 
of  the  brave.  The  war  gave  them  an  opportunity.  The 
boy  who  has  to  fight  his  way  against  odds,  or  forge  his 
way  to  the  front  against  more  than  an  even  field  is  ex- 
cusable for  being  timid  about  tackling  the  job.  The 
trouble  is  there  are  not  enough  men  ready  to  encourage 
boys  to  become  useful  men.  What  you  get  in  this  busy 

[212] 


world  you  have  to  fight  for.  The  fact  is  it  isn't  worth 
much  unless  you  have  wrested  it  from  the  world  after  a 
struggle  in  which  you  are  both  gamers. 

"When  I  applied  for  a  local  agency  to  sell  farm  ma- 
chinery on  commission  the  people  smiled  at  the  audacity 
of  my  thinking  I  could  sell  goods  of  that  kind.  But  I 
worked,  early  and  late.  I  called  to  my  aid  every  resource 
of  my  experience.  When  the  roads  were  too  bad  to  drive 
I  rode  horseback,  and  when  the  horse  couldn't  get  through 
I  walked.  The  result  was  that  the  man  who  smiled  the 
broadest  at  my  application  paid  me  more  money  than 
any  other  man  in  his  employ  because  I  sold  the  goods 
and  collected  the  money  for  them.  Thus,  my  years  of 
handling  machinery  on  the  farm,  and  knowing  the  far- 
mer's characteristics,  my  contact  with  these  kind  of  peo- 
ple in  the  drug  store  and  postoffice,  and  in  publishing  the 
village  newspaper,  and  my  life  as  a  salesman,  led  me  to 
believe  I  could  run  a  farmers'  magazine. 

"I  launched  the  enterprise  against  the  advice  of  every 
business  friend,  and  safely  stored  away  are  the  discour- 
aging letters  which  came  as  answers  to  mine  setting  forth 
my  plans.  In  1889  I  had  been  broken  down  in  health  as 
the  result  of  an  attack  of  typhoid  fever,  and  on  the  ad- 
vice of  the  doctor  tried  a  change  in  climate.  The  com- 
pany for  which  I  was  working  sent  me  to  Wisconsin. 
Nine  years  later,  on  that  memorable  day  in  May  when 
Dewey  sank  the  fleet  of  Admiral  Montejo  in  Manila  Bay 
the  first  issue  of  The  American  Thresherman  appeared. 
Upon  its  front  page  was  a  picture  of  the  battleship  In- 
diana. The  magazine  is  running  yet  and  its  advertising 
accounts  and  subscription  list  are  evidences  that  I  was 
right.  I've  had  all  the  discouragements  in  the  category, 
in  every  enterprise  in  which  I  ventured,  and  sometimes 
the  other  fellow  has  licked  me  and  licked  me  hard.  But 
the  contest,  instead  of  putting  me  down  and  out,  has  only 
nerved  me  to  come  again. 

"There  are  a  whole  lot  of  fellows  giving  you  advice 
and  holding  up  their  hands  to  tell  you  'not  to  do  it,' 
when  you  plan  to  build  in  lines  out  of  the  common  run, 

[til] 


and  who  are  waiting  around  for  a  chance  to  say,  'I  told 
you  so,'  if  you  fail.  But  these  fellows  only  know  'six 
per  cent  and  safe  security,'  and  they  never  did  a  piece 
of  original  constructive  economical  work  in  their  lives. 
If  Columbus  had  had  a  charted  sea  Isabella  wouldn't 
have  sold  her  finger  rings  to  help  him  and  you  would 
never  have  heard  of  him.  Of  course  he  got  shoved  in 
the  bastile  and  thought  the  world  ungrateful,  the  same 
as  some  of  the  rest  of  us  have  been  given  the  grimy  end  of 
the  poker  when  we  tried  to  be  public  benefactors.  I've 
been  there  myself.  I  organized  a  telephone  company 
once  to  help  a  town  get  decent  service.  The  end  of  the 
poker  I  got  was  not  only  dirty,  it  was  hot.  But  I  lived 
through  it  and  after  washing  my  hands  and  putting  salve 
on  the  burn  I  finally  got  so  I  could  talk  about  it  ration- 
ally. 

"I  haven't  much  use  for  a  man  who  never  was  licked. 
He  never  had  a  fight.  Most  of  what  I've  learned  in  the 
struggle  of  life  has  been  pounded  in  with  sledgehammer 
blows,  and  it  won't  come  out.  I've  never  rested  content 
with  what  I've  done.  Old  Alexander  and  I  are  alike  in 
that  way,  I  suppose,  only  he  didn't  know  enough  to  start 
some  other  kind  of  a  contest  after  he  got  through  con- 
quering the  world.  He  just  sat  down  and  blubbered. 
He  didn't  know  how  to  do  anything  but  spread  desola- 
tion with  an  army.  He  was  brought  up  wrong.  If  he'd 
been  through  the  mill  as  a  boy  and  had  some  experience 
besides  wearing  a  crown  and  saying  'Sic  'em'  to  a  bunch 
of  corpse  makers,  he'd  have  used  his  big  army  in  farming 
and  gone  to  inventing  machinery  to  help  the  chaps  plow, 
till  and  harvest  the  crops.  Instead  of  that  he  went  and 
got  drunk  like  a  jcommon  person  and  died  of  the  '  snakes ' ; 
and  they  miscalled  him  Alexander  the  Great,  when  he 
never  did  anything  that  didn't  call  for  brute  force  and 
carnage. 

"The  old  cuss  ought  to  have  been  out  in  one  of  the 
old-time  field  trials  of  farm  machinery.  He  'd  have  known 
what  real  war  was.  I  remember  up  at  Fort  Wayne  in 
the  'eighties  I  came  off  victor  with  my  machine.  I  didn't 

[214] 


do  any  Alexander  act  but  I  did  one  about  as  bad.  I 
made  a  mistake.  I  discovered  it  afterwards  and  never 
made  the  same  one  again.  I  was  so  exuberant  over  my 
success  that  I  went  up  and  got  a  big  mourning  rosette 
with  black  and  white  streamers  ten  feet  long  attached 
to  it.  This  I  hung  on  the  door  of  my  defeated  rival.  I 
got  one  of  the  finest  beatings  I  ever  got  in  my  life,  and 
I've  had  a  few.  After  I  had  pondered  over  the  matter  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  I  deserved  it.  If  the  north  had 
rubbed  it  in  after  she  got  through  with  the  south  it  would 
have  been  the  climax  of  cruelty.  Old  Alec  would  have 
rubbed  it  in  and  then  some. 

"I  lived  through  that  most  trying  period  of  this  na- 
tion's history.  I've  seen  the  land  north  and  south 
drenched  in  the  blood  of  its  brave  young  men  and  re- 
united. I  associated  with  soldiers  on  both  sides.  Who  but 
Americans  have  given  such  proofs  of  bravery  as  that 
shown  on  the  battlefields  of  Chickamauga,  Stone  River, 
Antietam,  and  all  those  other  great  contests  of  arms. 
Think  of  that  memorable  charge  of  Pickett's  division, 
across  the  wheat  fields  and  up  Little  Bound  Top  to  the 
stone  fence,  where  it  was  possible  to  walk  all  the  way  on 
human  beings  who  had  fallen  in  the  charge!  Think  of 
the  Louisiana  Tigers  and  the  New  York  Zouaves !  Think 
of  the  untold  misery  that  the  war  entailed,  and  realize 
the  price  paid  'that  this  nation  should  not  perish  from 
the  earth!' 

"The  flag  on  Sumter  waves  peacefully  and  trium- 
phantly over  a  reunited  nation.  Some  who  led  the  chiv- 
alrous armies  of  the  south  to  defeat  in  '61  to  '65  led  the 
armies  of  the  Union  to  victory  in  '98,  when  on  land  and 
sea  the  flower  of  southern  manhood  vied  with  that  of 
the  north  in  deeds  of  bravery. 

"Nearly  all  the  old  leaders  on  both  sides,  in  the  Civil 
War,  have  heard  the  last  reveille  and  taps  will  soon  be 
sounded  for  all  survivors  of  the  conflict.  The  hand  of 
time  has  effaced  the  bitterness  of  the  past.  Down  in 
Dixie  are  my  two  sisters  with  age  creeping  on  them, 
while  I  am  here  in  the  north.  By  a  strange  train  of 

[215] 


events  my  home  and  my  heart  is  with  the  northern  people 
who  were  father  and  mother  to  me  in  the  days  of  my 
wretchedness,  while  these  sisters  were  privileged  to  re- 
main with  the  south,  be  a  part  of  its  sorrow  and  witness 
its  advance.  In  every  way  I  can  I  show  these  two  women, 
who  loved  me  and  prayed  for  me,  that  I  love  them  just 
the  same  as  though  years  had  not  separated  us,  nor  my 
fortunes  had  not  been  cast  across  the  once  fateful  line. 
In  the  old  cemetery  in  Arkansaw  lie  my  father  and 
mother  and  grandfather  and  grandmother,  and  my  broth- 
er and  sisters.  In  the  beautiful  cemetery  at  Madison, 
Wisconsin,  sleeps  my  son  whose  life  was  a  benediction 
to  me.  Near  him  are  two  beautiful  squares.  One  contains 
the  remains  of  the  boys  in  blue,  in  the  other  the  bodies 
of  the  boys  in  gray  wko  died  among  the  snow  drifts  of 
Wisconsin  as  prisoners  of  war.  The  Daughters  of  the 
Confederacy  presented  a  fitting  monument  to  the  south- 
ern boys  sleeping  there.  It  was  dedicated  by  Lucius 
FairchUd  Post,  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  one  beauti- 
ful autumn  day.  Living  and  dead  my  ties  are  north  and 
soutk  and  peace  reigns.  Thank  God !  Peace  reigns ! ' ' 

THE  END. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000905073    3 


